


Explaining the Infinite

by Thunderbirds_and_Lightning



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Broken Bones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Interdimensional shenanigans, Internal Conflict, John Angst, John Whump, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Portals, Post-Season 2, Sneakiness, Time Travel, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24018238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderbirds_and_Lightning/pseuds/Thunderbirds_and_Lightning
Summary: What happens when you cross a self-proclaimed genius(?) by the name of Langstrom Fischler, a scientific impossibility, and a writer with the tendency to whump any character within a 500-word radius?This. This happens. And when Fischler’s involved, things never end well.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 33





	1. Have Portal, Will Travel

**Have Portal, Will Travel: TAG Universe**

Langstrom Fischler goes by many names, most of them hurled his way from the other end of a phone line. He holds the device away from his ear as the furious rant continues, a smug grin plastered over his face, and plops the phone down on its stand.

“Honestly, some people,” he mutters to his solitary employee, “it was a teeny-tiny mistake! We just left out the emergency escape routes, is all. God, why do they make so much fuss?”

Kinnear glances up from his work with his lips pressed together. He can’t exactly _argue_ with his boss, but the level of pure stupidity… Kinnear lets out an internal scream as the phone buzzes again.

“Hello, Fischler Industries, how may I-” Fischler pauses as the same yelling continues. He positions his hand over the receiving end to muffle the sound.

“Yes, I _completely understand_ that it crashed… no that is _not_ my fault, go complain to somebody else!”

He twirls around in his swivel chair. “And this is why,” he starts with a theatrical sweep of his arms, “you keep at it! When something fails, what do you do?”

Silence, before it dawns on Kinnear that his boss is addressing him.

“You… work at it and improve your methods?” he stammers.

“No!” Fischler cheers, leaping out of the chair and leaving it spinning behind him, “you give up, and start on the next project!”

“Of course,” Kinnear groans. Oh, why didn’t he leave when the others did?

Fischler suddenly claps, startling Kinnear. “Right. Our next creation will be the best, most glorious machine the world has ever seen! We shall build… a transportation device!”

Again, silence, as Kinnear realises that the news should please him.

“Oh, marvellous,” he answers in a tone that conveys the exact opposite.

“I know right! Aren’t I clever.”

Kinnear faceplants the wall and lets the hydrospanner in his grip drop to the floor with a dull _clang_.

“Well, chop-chop! No resting on your laurels. _You’ve_ got a portal to build.” calls Fischler. 

Kinnear’s frustration overflows. He leaps to his feet, fists clenched and blood rising to his cheeks. 

“How exactly _do_ I go about making a portal? The world’s best scientific minds have tried for years, and gotten nowhere close! Do you really expect me to succeed in such a short amount of time?” he roars.

Fischler brushes him aside with a flick of his wrist. “Yes, of course! Who _else_ am I going to delegate the impossible tasks to?”

With a sigh, Kinnear turns back to the wall panel he’s been working on.

“Do you want me to fix this first, or-”

“No! Abandon everything, apart from the portal. This will be the greatest achievement of Fischler Industries to date!”

 _Not much competition there_ , Kinnear notes.

Fischler is back in the spinning chair, musing to himself. 

“We’ll shove it in geostationary orbit until it’s complete. Can’t do any harm there! What satellite uses geostationary these days, anyway?”

What satellite, indeed.

-o)O(o- 

The space elevator emerges from the upper reaches of the atmosphere, docking to Five with the _clunk_ of electromagnets. 

“Well, see you in another month.” Alan smiles, hologram flickering, “Are you sure you’re okay up there?” His face falls.

“I’ll be fine, Alan, don’t worry,” John replies, mind already distracted with incoming calls and alerts.

“I know, I know, just-” He exhales. “It’s so far away from Earth, and if anything were to go wrong, then…” Alan’s eyes betray his anxiety, irises blue and vulnerable and gleaming from their holographic tint.

“Alan, I’m going to be _fine_ . There’s no reason to panic.” John soothes in his best persuasive _International-Rescue-is-here-you-can-relax-now_ voice. 

“Besides,” he adds, trying to lighten the mood, “what could be worse than Grandma’s cooking? At least I’m safe up here from _that_.”

Alan’s gaze darts up. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

The airlock seals and gravity begins to tug at his ankles. “Bye, Allie.”

“Bye, John.” Alan’s hologram wavers, then disappears. 

The small seed of doubt planted from the conversation pulls his diaphragm tight as he walks along the outer ring. 

_What if…_

_No._

_Nothing could go wrong. Nothing would go wrong._

John pauses mid-stride, pulling himself to a standstill in the reduced gravity. 

_Everything’s fine,_ he tells himself. 

He rubs his eyes and sets off at a light jog, the globe room his destination. Ideal location to sort out situations when times call for it, and if not, then his favourite place on the entire station. Float. Breathe. Relax. Precisely what he needs to deal with the rising tension in his chest. 

As he pushes off the plexiglass floor, the space beneath it ripples. 

The instant before he reaches the globe room the airlock slams shut and holo-alarms pop up and emergency red lighting kicks in. The holographic globe collapses in on itself, throwing out a shower of sparks. 

_Okay, okay. Prioritise. What’s going on here?_

EOS’s alerts, rapidly increasing in volume, inform him of several oxygen breaches, dead propulsion systems, and primary engine failure.

“John,” she implores, her lights flickering between white and violet, “we have a collapse in hull integrity. Thunderbird Five is breaking apart. You need to get your helmet on and g-”

Her camera droops and her screen turns black. 

Five convulses, her rivets straining. Metal grinds against metal. The floor shudders beneath John’s feet as something heavy glances off the satellite. Already struggling to maintain his balance, the impact strikes John against the ceiling of the gravity ring. Ruby liquid seeps from a gash on his forehead. His eyes dilate, dazed, as he gently prods the wound. 

The tips of his fingers come away crimson.

Oh, dear.

He doesn’t think of reaching for his comms, hitting the physical-not-metaphorical panic button, activating his emergency code. Darkness encroaches the edges of his vision; cool, sweet, with promises to remove the pain. 

He’d like that. 

About to surrender to the blissful darkness, he spies a Thunderbird-shaped red dot through the cracked glass of the gravity ring. His damaged comms unit emits one final static burst, dotted with fractured sentences.

“-n! Stay with me, we’re coming, just hold o-”

“-ou hear me? John! Are you th-”

“-n’t close your eyes, John, don’t go to sl-”

Three different voices, each filled with the same terror-stricken urgency. 

His _family_. He can’t leave. EOS must have alerted them before she… 

But this hurts too much: the lightning coursing through his side, lifeblood trickling from his veins. He can’t bear it any longer.

Tremors fling him against another harsh surface. The lights in his eyes flick out like the snap of a finger.

Air hisses out of various ruptures in the hull. Precious oxygen dissipates into space. The waves around Five grow into undulations of incredible magnitude, distorting the marble-sized Earth. Stars are indiscernible from the blackness surrounding them.

The space station gives one final heave, aftershocks bumping John’s unconscious body between walls. His arms trail behind him like limp strands of spaghetti. 

The void swallows the satellite. 

There _was_ a Thunderbird. And now there is not.


	2. Orange Is the New Lilac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a character's name is in bold, it means that they're a character who is in the TOS Universe who has already been introduced in TAG. A name will not be bold if they haven't appeared in the TAG universe yet.  
> I hope this clears up any confusion, and enjoy :)  
> This is a long chapter, hopefully others should be shorter.

**Orange Is the New Lilac: TOS Universe**

The typical vista from Thunderbird Five is the infinite onyx void of space, the gentle glowing curvature of the Earth, stars twinkling in distant constellations-

 **John** pauses and furrows his brow.

It’s not very _often_ one sees a mass of metal and glass spiralling into a collision course with your satellite.

Wait… what?

Five shudders with the impact and sends **John** sprawling over the metal floor. He hauls himself up and eyes the unwelcome intrusion.

It’s certainly a peculiar craft, constituted from spheres, cylinders, and a rotational torus girdling the other sections. The torus’ outer wall presses against Five’s meteor deflectors, warping her bronze plates. _The… whatever it is… has solar panels_ , **John** notes. All but one are shattered, their debris glittering in shafts of sunlight. 

The satellite creaks and **John** sprints to the other side of the comms hub. A thick metal claw has embedded itself in Five’s external walls. He’ll need to cut it free before it punctures the air supply.

Its lights are out. Power’s gone. The station is an empty shell; meaning that he can tow it into graveyard orbit to prevent any _other_ unprecedented collisions. **John** plucks his helmet and EVA suit from their locker, pauses, and grabs his laser cutter too. 

The airlock stumbles open, jammed by a stray metal panel. **John** slices through it with a quick swipe of the laser beam. It breaks in two pieces; he watches as the parts tumble towards the beach ball-sized Earth beneath his feet.

They’ll burn up on re-entry.

He severs the first hinge of the claw, letting it drift aside, and begins work on the second. They belong to a space elevator; the grapple is attached to a silvery-white cylinder, large enough to stand in. Multiple thrusters hook onto the machine, tempered blue around their rims.

The claw joint snaps. 

**John** tethers its debris together, chunks of metal bobbing around him like unconventional helium balloons. He clips them to the remaining wreckage of the craft, wheels round to face the airlock, exhales. 

Then his heart thuds, breath hitching and blood pressure plummeting with a sinking feeling nestled in the pit of his stomach as he catches a glimpse of _something_ that proves the abandoned satellite isn’t as abandoned as he first thought. 

The streak of azure and gold that attracted his attention bumps against the glass walls like a disoriented bird, limp and lifeless. In an instant **John** propels himself to the satellite, latching onto the external panels. 

The person’s in a bad state, a wound below the hairline welling up with blood, bright red pearls of the stuff hovering about them. They’re not wearing a helmet, **John** notes bitterly, meaning he can’t damage the station further without suffocating them. 

He taps the comms link on the side of his helmet, takes a deep breath of recycled oxygen, and tries his best not to sound guilty.

“Base from Thunderbird Five,” **John** begins, voice wavering, “Is anybody there?” One of his brothers would be preferable, but he already knows who will be on the other end of the line.

“Hi, John, how are you doing?” says **Jeff**.

“Uhh, hello, Father. I’m good. I have a question, you know, hypothetically speaking…?”

“Go on. What is it?”

 **John** blinks, glad that no eye contact is necessary over radio. “If… say, you found someone unconscious in a space station that appeared out of thin air, and you have no clue whether they’re alive or… the alternative; what’s the right thing to do? I mean, would you bring them aboard the nearest Thunderbird and sort them out there, or…”

“That’s a tricky one. Of course on Earth you’d try and help, bring them to the nearest hospital, but in _space_ it’s a whole different scenario. No facilities for literally _thousands_ of miles.”

“Meaning…” 

“I hate to even suggest this, but the only option is to leave them.” **Jeff** orders. “You’d leave them, at least until Thunderbird Three can arrive.”

“But why Three? Why not Five?” protests **John**.

“Because, John, Five is the central command. If she goes down, we all go down. I’d have thought _you_ of all people would recognise that.”

 **John** pauses, glancing back at the limp figure in the station. Leave them? What happened to rescuing people? 

_International Rescue_.

In the name. 

What was the point if he couldn’t help? A person has to be saved, right now; if he waited for Thunderbird Three then it might be too late. They need medical attention, and _fast_.

“Yes, Father,” he murmurs. 

**John** disconnects communications without waiting for a reply; he knows what he has to do. His gaze wavers momentarily before settling on a nearby airlock. 

_Bingo_.

The port spirals open the moment he reaches it, revealing a long cylindrical corridor. 

“Backup power must still be running,” he mumbles, chills rolling down his spine. Emergency lights bathe the walls in an eerie red glow, and combined with the hiss of the life support pumping air around what’s left of the station, it brings about an unsettling scene. 

**John** doesn’t take his helmet off. His spine prickles; the unconscious figure is surplus evidence to convince him not to trust this place. 

Another hatch unlocks in a similar fashion to the first, revealing the grand expanse of the toroidal structure. **John** hovers, suspended mid-air, the walls arching out of view below and above him.

His gloved fingers trace coloured ribbons along the curved panels, like circuitry wiring the ship together. Blue, orange, then green and purple; pairs of the lines drawing paths along the ring’s convex surface.

If it hadn’t been in several pieces, the station would be quite beautiful. It’s a shame, that this jewel of a ship will suffer an everlasting death, rusting solus in graveyard orbit. A tug of longing yanks at his heart. For the short time spent here, he feels this is strangely like Five. 

Once he looks past the floating debris and the ominous creaking and gouges in the walls, that is.

 **John** snaps out of his trance, mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts, senses _adamant_ that he’s _been here before_. But how? 

_Come on. Someone_ needs _rescuing. Focus._

 **John** manoeuvers himself towards the unconscious figure, scooping them up into a loose bridal hold. Their skin is pallid and thin, more like paper than anything human. The only colour comes from a scattering of freckles and-

_Ah._

Red flushes of frostbite settling on their nose, cheeks, the tips of their ears, spreading across their face like a bruise.

Hopefully it isn’t too late. If the blast didn’t kill him, the frostbite would try. Even through his suit, **John** can feel the frigid temperatures seeping into his body, chilling him to the core; the effects must be worse without a helmet or _other_ protection.

The man’s suit hugs his form, various shades of blue broken up by integrated bio-circuitry and a leather baldric sweeping down from his shoulder to his hip. 

He’s lucky that the hull breach isn’t any larger. He’d freeze solid otherwise. 

His gelled-back copper hair is already crystallising, frost forming along the hairline and on the tips of his fringe. Streaks of ice settle in his eyebrows; white flecks obscure his eyelashes to the extent that **John** can’t determine their original colour.

Before slipping an oxygen mask over his head, **John** brushes what he can of the frost aside. 

There. Now, he doesn’t look _so_ much like a ghost. 

**John** tugs the weightless figure in the direction of the airlock, momentum carrying them forward like a kite in Thunderbird One’s slipstream. 

They drift through the tube-esque section of the satellite, the uncanny red glow less haunting and more a reminder of the terrible accident that occurred.

 **John** double-checks the seal on the man’s helmet, then activates the airlock. The pressure difference catapults them into the inky void, faint stars perforating the blackness. 

Five is a welcome sight. **John** wraps his arms around the man’s shoulders, gently directing him towards the satellite, ducking under the wreckage of the broken station. Golden plating glints in the raw sunlight. Located on the outside of the cylinder is a large dark plaque, white writing, scraped in the impact but nonetheless legible. **John** pauses, running his hand along the metal to slow himself down. 

The panel reads something which, quite simply, shouldn’t be _possible_.

He twists around. Five, _his_ craft, hangs in orbit; a pane identical to the one he saw earlier labels the station as _THUNDERBIRD 5_. 

_Then how…_

**John’s** lips tighten as he faces the original plaque. 

_THUNDERBIRD 5_.

Unease builds in his throat. 

The beacon atop Five’s airlock blinks, reminding **John** of the way forward. He fiddles with his oxygen gauge, then hauls himself hand-over-hand towards safety. The moment he glides through the airlock the artificial gravity generators whirr to life, depositing him and the rescuee’s limp weight onto the floor. **John** crouches to reduce the impact. He stumbles, flinging out his spare arm and bracing it against the wall. He’s unprepared for having to re-adjust with this extra mass; this is his first rescue in what seems like forever. 

Up until this point, he could count the number of his missions on one hand. His family had relegated him to lowly Space Monitor, doing nothing but sitting around, stargazing to relieve his boredom and waiting for something to happen. The least active, _but still the most important_ , he fiercely told himself time after time. It did nothing to help. When his brothers made front-page headlines of ‘ _International Rescue Saves Trapped Crew_ ’, ‘ _Monorail Disaster Averted_ ’, et cetera et cetera, he watched from afar. They received all the praise and he was trapped in a tin can in orbit. 

Most important, they said. Crucial part, they said. **John** agreed, communications played a vital role in maintaining the organisation.

It just didn’t feel that way.

**John** lowers the man to the ground as best as he can, props him up in the recovery position and pulls open the portable hover-stretcher attached to the nearby wall In Case Of Emergency, as it reads in bold red letters. This probably qualifies. 

The stretcher’s jets splutter into existence and raise the platform a metre or so from the floor. **John** forces it downwards to a more manageable height, plants an elbow on its side to prevent the platform from floating upwards again, and carefully lifts the rescuee onto it. His pulse is stabilising, according to the med-scanner, and core temperature is climbing to match Thunderbird Five.

The scanner informs him of breaks to the right ulna and radius, and three fractured ribs, in addition to the forehead wound. **John’s** pleasantly surprised that there aren’t any other injuries, based on the condition of the satellite’s wreckage. He guides the stretcher into an empty room, draws the sun-shields across the window to obscure any views of space, and takes a med-kit from the base of the gurney. The room is dark, save for a silver flicker from the corridor. Automatic lighting kicks in and illuminates the area. **John** grabs several rolls of bandages, a tube of medical tape, and a bottle of antiseptic from the kit; placing them methodically along a shelf. He pushes back his fringe, dons a mask and pair of protective gloves, and begins to dress the wounds. 

All breaks are clean and settle into position without any complications, yet **John** finds himself elaborating over each cast, reviewing and re-tying their bindings, pacing up and down rhythmically across the metal flooring, cradling the man’s uninjured hand in his own to reduce the pain-contorted expression on his face, slipping the blinds open and peering out at the halcyon planet below.

Earth would do fine without him for a few more hours.

With a sigh, **John** twists around to look towards his patient, who rests with less discomfort now that his injuries are treated.

He did the right thing. He knows that.

It just doesn’t feel that way.

-o)O(o- 

_John scaled the wall, fingertips hooked over the edge of the vertical barrier as he hauled himself up and over. Done. He glanced up to read the holographic stopwatch hovering above his training circuit. 3:35. Two seconds slower than last time._

_He perches on the top of the wall and swings his legs over its lip, clenching his hands together, calming his breath._

_“Are you alright?” Gordon asks from the other side of the hall, pulling away from his laps to balance on the side of the pool._

_John nods, too tired to speak._

_Gordon heaves himself out of the water and stoops to grab a towel. His chestnut hair falls in his eyes and the towel hinders his movements like an ancient toga, yet he tackles John’s vertical challenge with ease and plops down next to his elder brother._

_“What about your time?” John falters._

_Gordon shrugs, flinging his goggles aside. They land with a clatter several metres away. “Time doesn’t matter. Dad fully well knows I can do my laps in fifty seconds, why would I need that clock to prove it?”_

_“Yeah.” John smiles. “I guess so. I mean, you have an Olympic medal!”_

_“Gold Olympic medal,” Gordon adds._

_“Exactly! Surely that’s more than enough proof that you’re capable of this.”_

_Gordon sighs. “You know how Dad is. Always pushing us to the limit, past the limit. I get that this whole rescue organisation is important, and I can’t wait to be a part of it, but he needs to understand that we’re not machines. We need to rest sometimes. You-” He squeezes John’s shoulders, stroking the taut white fabric of his sports top, hazel eyes locking onto Arctic blue, “-need to relax. Take it easy.”_

_“Thanks, Gordon.” John gives a ghost of a smile._

_“No prob. That’s what brothers are for, isn’t it? To look out for one another.”_

_“But… one thing.”_

_“Oh, John. Always the pessimist. I know exactly what you’re going to say.”_

_“How?”_

_Gordon leans over and whispers ‘squid sense!’ with a dramatic flourish of the towel like a matador’s cape. John snorts with laughter._

_“Back to our conversation,” Gordon says, hoisting the towel up around his chest._

_John raises one eyebrow._

_“You’re worried that Dad’s going to get mad at you because you’re not doing what he asked, yes?”_

_John deflects his gaze. “Yes,” he mumbles._

_“You need a big break. Sorry bro, it’s obvious. Anyone can see it. If Dad doesn’t realise how much pressure he’s putting on all of us then he should get his eyes tested!”_

_John doesn’t respond, staring impassively at the various training circuits._

_Gordon nudges him. “Come on. When we get home, I’ll talk to him. But for now…” His face creases into a smile. “You’re coming in the pool with me, whether you like it or not!”_

_John tried to protest but Gordon dragged him down the exit ramp and shoved him into the turquoise water. He cannonballed in after John, drenching anything within a two-metre radius._

_“See?” Gordon grinned, floating on his back. “Much better.”_

-o)O(o- 

He trusts his younger brother with his life. Of course he would tell **Gordon**. 

**John** opens a private comms channel direct to Thunderbird Four. “Gordon? Hey, can we t-”

“I’m sorry, but the Thunderbird you seek is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.” 

_Blast it._

**John** jams his fingers in his ears as the system emits a shrill, piercing screech. 

Typical **Gordon**. 

He babbles an excuse for calling then shuts off the connection.

Pulling up a chair, he settles by the hover-stretcher like a guard dog, keeping watch as the golden sun sinks under the curve of the globe.

-o)O(o- 

_Ow._

John awakes slowly, vision swimming with unfamiliar shapes and colours. Gravity plonks itself on his chest like Two’s using him as a launchpad. He gulps for breath, the weight of the air crushing his lungs. Calm down. Calm down. 

Must be back on Earth.

John presses a shaking hand to his forehead, wincing as the action sends a jolt of pain reverberating through his skull. 

Oddly enough, that injury is dressed, covered by layers of thick white bandage and gauze. He tries to smile. _Thank you, whoever did that._

He twists around, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows, but no sooner than he does two pale, slender hands catch hold of his shoulders and lightly push him back.

“Easy, easy now. You’ve taken a pretty big knock, you still need to recover.”

John turns his head towards the sound of the voice, flinching as pain shoots through his right arm.

Two forget-me-not blue eyes gaze intently back at him. 

“Yeah, you broke that, as well as a few ribs. Don’t worry, I sorted them; they should heal in six to eight weeks. You were lucky you only ended up with a few scrapes. But I’d be careful, okay?” their owner says without blinking.

John nods. 

The man leaning on the end of his hover-stretcher is tall, gracile; with sculpted features and being perhaps of similar age to himself. A flick of snowy hair shadows part of his face, the rest framing his head like an angel’s halo. His eyes are a deep cobalt blue, the room’s artificial lights reflecting silver in their pupils. Worry lines crease his pale skin. 

He stands up with some difficulty, movements rigid and lacking the fluidity typical of an Earth-dweller. 

_Unless…_

“Where exactly _am_ I?” John asks, brushing back his fringe with his good arm and recoiling as he touches his _cold_ , _sodden_ , _dripping-wet_ hair. His face tingles. What in the Universe happened?

The man’s gaze darts over the room, focusing on the chrome door handle, the roaring jet of the hover-stretcher, a particularly fascinating part of the ceiling; avoiding _any_ eye contact.

“I _repeat_ ,” John emphasises, fixing the man with a steely glare, “where am I? And, as a matter of fact, who are _you_? How do I even know that I can trust you?”

He swallows. “I’m sorry. I- I can’t tell you our location, it would be against-”

“Against _what_?” clips in John. 

The man’s eyelids slide shut, defeated.

“Stay here,” he mumbles, “I need to confer with someone about this.”

He slips out of the room and bolts the door closed. Sounds are muffled, but John can make out the conversation that takes place. A crackle of static, then:

“Base from Thunderbird Five, do you read me?”

_Wait, what?_

An older male voice this time, thick with an American accent. “Hi again John, how’s it going? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. But… I need to ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

An uncomfortable pause, then a shuddery intake of breath. “Under what circumstances would it be acceptable to breach the Public Secrecy Act?” **John** asks, interlocking his fingers.

A short bark of laughter from the person on the other end of the line. “Breach it? You must be joking. We’ve spent precious time, money, valuable resources, making sure the island and our equipment are secure. Under no circumstances do we reveal ourselves. Got it?”

“Yes, Father,” mutters **John** , dipping his head and attempting to move inconspicuously towards the door. 

“Hold it.” the other voice commands, and **John** obeys.

“Is anything on your mind, John? You seem… nervous.”

“Me? Nervous? No, I’m good. All good.” **John** pushes his hair back.

A sigh. “Very well then. See you in two weeks.”

“Yeah. Two weeks. Bye, Father.”

“Tracy Island out.”

 **John** turns away from the monitor, cheeks burning scarlet and clashing _awfully_ with his sleek blond hair. He flings the door open and slumps against a wall.

“So…” John prompts, shifting from his recumbent state on the stretcher to a seated position despite the blossoming pain in his chest.

“Have you ever heard of International Rescue?”

John bites his lip and nods.

“Well, we’re on… I mean, this is…” **John** gestures to the room, “Thunderbird Five. The satellite. The one nobody ever knows about because she’s stuck in orbit, but she has just as an important role as the other ships. Communications and all. I had to bring you on board; you were practically _dying_ , even though I’m not supposed to because of the security stuff, but that’s what IR’s about, isn’t it? Saving lives? And… I _definitely_ didn’t tell you that.”

John’s heart rate fluctuates, sending the medical scanner coupled to his stretcher haywire.

“Whoah, are you alright? Do you feel faint? Headache, dizzy, anything else?” **John** fusses around his patient, but he responds with a shake of the head and bats away attempts to steady him.

“I’m fine… I think, anyway, because for a moment I thought you said that _this_ ,” John waves his left arm in the vague direction of the rest of the room, careful not to jolt the right, “is Thunderbird Five.”

 **John** gives a sympathetic grin, then clears his throat. “I know, I know, it’s kinda hard to get your head round, but Five has never been seen by anybody outside of International Rescue and-”

“This can’t be right.”

“How so?”

He can feel his voice rising several octaves; John can’t tell whether it's through nerves or disbelief. Probably both.

“Because this isn’t Thunderbird Five.” 

“Huh. Perhaps you hit your head harder than I first thought,” **John** muses, picking up a roll of bandages and holding it out like a shield. “Now, hold steady, I’ll see what I can do to sort you out-”

“Please! You have to believe me!” 

John rocks back on the palms of his hands, flinches, draws the right arm close to his body and bites his lip.

The blond crouches by the stretcher, one eyebrow arched and an amused expression forming. “I’m intrigued. Please go on.”

“Well, my ship is called Thunderbird Five, and it appears so is yours. Both belong to International Rescue.”

His eyes widen, as he drinks in this new information. “You’re part of IR?”

“Yes, I-” John sighs. “I know this will be hard to understand, but I think that there’s been-” he screws his eyes shut in anticipation for the inevitable wave of confusion and panic, “some element of universe-swapping.”

“So you’re saying… that-”

“There’s more than one universe. A multiverse.”

 **John** flaps a hand in front of himself as if trying to waft the ideas out of his personal space.

“Parallel universe,” he says incredulously, emphasising both words as much as possible. 

“Parallel universe.” echoes John.

 **John** considers the risks of believing such a ridiculous theory, leaving the pair in an uncomfortable silence.

A deep breath to calm his nerves, then:

“This is… certainly amazing, but what proof do you have?”

“Well, this is the tricky part. From what I can gather, the proof is right here. We are… the same person.”

The same person. 

Identical. 

As preposterous as it may seem, this makes _sense_. 

Giving a weak smile, **John** stammers, “I think you’d better lie down. Get some rest. This experience must have been… stressful.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

His cheeks flush a tell-tale shade of rose. “What? No, of course I believe you.”

“Excellent. In that case-” John uncouples a black disc from his baldric, fiddling with a mechanism on the back, “-you will understand this is for a good reason.”

He swings his legs off the gurney, wincing as they jar against the floor. While in pain and adjusting for gravity, he hobbles to a nearby access panel (at least he thinks it’s an access panel, he’s still getting used to this dimension’s Thunderbird Five) and tries to twist the disc into place.

“Woah! What are you doing?” **John’s** on his feet, sapphire gaze flicking around the room.

“Uploading something.” He strains with the panel.

“No! I’ll have no viruses on my station, thank you very much.”

John grits his teeth. “It-” He swallows, carefully measuring his next words, “- _she_ , is not a virus. Well, not anymore.”

A frantic squawk. “What?!”

John continues to fiddle with the systems.

“I was joking, I didn’t mean upload an _actual_ _virus_. Please… remove _her_.” 

“EOS is not a virus.”

“So she has a name?”

“Yes.” John doesn’t look away from the unit. “She chose it herself.”

“EOS is an AI, then?”

“Don’t let her hear you saying that. She prefers to be referred to as an Artificial Intelligence.”

“Same difference.”

“As I said, don’t let her catch you calling her that.”

 **John** tries to regain his composure and tell other-him to step _away_ from the access panel, but a blinding flash of red, purple, green, white strobes around the room and settles on a screen by the window.

Twelve circular lights appear on said screen, dots arranged in a uniform circle. It gives a yawn which could pass off as human, and the upper six circles blink.

“Good morning, John. I seem to have a gap in my memory banks, could you please fill me in-”

The lights tilt, scrutinising both people in the room.

“John, why are there two of you?”

“Good morning EOS. Long story. We’re in a parallel universe.”

She pauses, processors whirring and lights cycling through the colours of a rainbow.

“I see,” she says finally. Her dots come to rest on a deep emerald green, mirroring John’s eyes.

“Hi, EOS. It’s nice to meet you,” **John** offers, having caught his breath and gotten used to the fact that _this artificial intelligence was so human_! He extends his hand for her to shake, before realising that she doesn’t have any arms to return the gesture, and quickly withdraws it.

Her lights soften into pale blue.

“I like you,” she announces, “and if you want to exchange handshakes then I would advise using a lever of some sort.”

 **John** glances over his shoulder, spotting a small gold crank protruding from a console. “Like that?”

“Yes, exactly,” replies EOS.

He makes his way over to the lever, then grasps it uncertainly. 

“Pleased to meet you, EOS.”

“Pleased to meet you too, John,” she returns, manipulating the lever so it moves up and down like an arm.

 **John** laughs.

“Wow! That worked _much_ better than the space elevator did.” EOS chirps.

John winces at the memory. Alan had insisted that EOS learnt to high-five, and she suggested practising with the half-tonne mooring claw, of all things.

It was hand-shaped, to be fair. EOS had called ‘high-five!’, there had been a _clunk_ as high-strength cahelium collided with not-so-high-strength human wrist, and John had to recover on Earth from multiple fractured carpals and a dislocated shoulder.

The pain in his torso intensifies from an ache to stabbing, searing agony in a heartbeat, hauling him away from the memory. 

He collapses against the bulkhead. Black tentacles probe the edges of his vision, drowning his senses. The ceiling seems much closer and the walls curve towards him.

Someone calls his name but they sound distant, immersed in an ocean half the world away. Pain spikes under his ribs. The last he remembers is feeling light-headed and the world tipping sideways.


	3. A Sting in the Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aspectabund (adj.) - having a very expressive face.
> 
> Small references to S1 E08 EOS and the Stingray universe!

**A Sting in the Tale: TOS Universe**

First comes sound.

Air hissing.

Frantic beeping.

Blurred voices, indistinct words, a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Then the caustic stench of hospital-grade disinfectant.

Bright white light stabs his eyes. He can feel his pupils shrink and dilate with each flash of the beam.

The same muffled voices again. One high and childlike, the other low and level with anxiety.

Cool metal digs into his spine. He tries to shift away from it, except his body won’t respond.

Panic sets in. He struggles, desperate for movement. Even one spasm of a little finger would be preferable to this.

He calls out but no words leave his throat, signals tangling between his brain and his larynx. Mute button activated.

This reminds him of being underwater, of free-diving one summer in the Tracy Island caldera. He floats face-up in the shallows, chest to the surface, shoulder blades to the depths, tendrils of sunlight exploring the surface waters. It’s warm at the top, and bright enough to determine what is happening above him. He hears the roar of the waves, sees hazy shapes pass over him, unaware of his presence yet close enough to touch. 

He reaches out. Something locks onto his shoulders from below. Stabs its claws in until they tear his skin. No matter the amount he twists and writhes to break free, it maintains its vice-like grip. 

He utters a silent scream as it pulls him away from the light, the warmth, the little awareness he has, and into the abyss of unconsciousness.

-o)O(o-

“John!”

His head feels stuffed to the brim with cotton wool, dampening his perception on reality.

“John? Answer me!”

Pain ebbs from his body like the falling tide. 

“JOHN! PLEASE, WAKE UP!”

His eyelids flutter, retinas accustoming to the blinding light. 

“Oh, thank the stars,” someone mutters.

“Will he be okay?” That high-pitched voice again.

“Yeah, he’s waking up now. John’s going to be fine.”

He forces his eyes open against the torrent of light that pours into them.  **John’s** and EOS’ aspectabund faces hover above his own, concern betrayed by the subtle furrowing of his brows and the flickers of blue on the AI’s screen.

“Heya, pal,”  **John** whispers, “welcome back to the land of the living. Do you think you can sit up?”

John groans and sinks further into the… mattress? Where did that come from?

“We moved you to the medical room, just to be safe. Well, technically  _ I _ moved you, as EOS over here doesn’t have any arms.”

The artificial intelligence giggles at the sound of her name, laughter coming from a monitor screen above the door frame. Her lights blink fuschia. 

**John** perches on another bed, hands clasped in worry. 

For a sterile environment, the room is cluttered with random objects. A globe, revolving slowly on its axis. A star-chart adorns the far wall. Stacks of books on various subjects, ranging from astrophysics through to oceanography. And an intricate model of Thunderbird Five, antennae and all, bronze paint glistening as it catches the light.

His arm twinges. “Vitals, EOS,” he murmurs. He’s used to checking his brothers’ life signs remotely, and their statistics reassure him, balanced heart rates and stable breathing. Perhaps his own statistics would reassure him too.

Sometimes, when up on Five, he would monitor situations with one ear on the comms and the other tuned into the heartbeat of whichever brother happened to risk their life that mission. They all had their unique patterns. Gordon’s was joyous, volatile, the hum of a person who thrived upon happiness. Virgil was far calmer, his beat harmonious and conducting the other rhythms of his body like a symphony orchestra. If you listened closely, which John often did, you could hear fragments of Bach or Beethoven woven into the melody. As if he were part piano.

In stark contrast, Alan’s and Scott’s were wild and impetuous things, perfect reflections of their personality and fiery tempers. Like the wings of a hummingbird, fast and furious, Alan’s pulse fluttered with the thrill of launching. The rocket’s adrenaline kick never ceased to exhilarate him. 

John had never listened to his own heartbeat. Too busy monitoring his family to focus on himself.

A whirr and EOS obliges, pulling up the charts of lines and figures that represent his health. Heart rate, a green line forming mountains and valleys with each beat, recovering from an earlier dip into critical red. 

He chooses to ignore that. 

Blood pressure okay, core temperature stabilising from previously hypothermic levels… that explains the tingling sensation. He presses an experimental hand to his face, skin prickling underneath each of his fingertips.

**John** shakes his head firmly. “No. You need to leave that alone, or it won’t heal.”

He’s about to protest that he  _ wasn’t _ , then realises that he is, in fact, talking to himself, and in his universe arguing with the space bro never goes down well.

So he sits on his left hand and glances around for something to occupy him.

There’s no shortage of interesting things, but one in particular catches his attention.

John squints at a yellow-blue blur on the stand beside his bed. “Is that… Stingray?”

“Yeah! I moved a few bits from my room to here, so you don’t feel as lonely. Hopefully we like the same kinda stuff.” 

That justifies the items strewn about the place.

An image of the aforementioned submarine rests on the table. John coordinates his limbs enough to pluck the picture from its place.

“Who’s that… in front of the dorsal fin. I don’t recognise them.”

“You wouldn’t, it’s Gordon.”  **John** sighs wistfully. “I remember when that photo was taken. We got it specially printed out, on good old-fashioned paper, so it remained in this perfect condition. I think it was in -” he flips the sheet over, scanning for a date - “2063.”

“Let me get this straight. In this universe, Stingray is - wait, did you say 2063?”

“Yep.”

John blanches. “Oh, goodness. I’ve time-travelled, too.”

“That complicates things,”  **John’s** gaze drops Earthwards. He takes a deep breath, then his tone brightens. “What year should it be - in your universe?”

“2062,” John mutters.

“That’s only a three-year difference from us. I’m sure we can work something out.”

A glint of sea-foam eyes. “Really?”

**John** gives an encouraging smile. “We’re International Rescue! What’s our motto again?”

“Never give up at any cost,” recites John.

“Exactly. We’ll sort this out, and we  _ won’t _ give up.”

John nods, staring to one side of his counterpart, external features a mask as his mind flicks through filing cabinets full of distractions. This is a terrifying thought, trapped in the future with no foreseeable way to travel back to the ones you love. Diversions are warranted and most welcome. 

The glow in John’s eyes returns like a rekindled flame and the corners of his lips curl up. Whether sardonic or mirthful, it serves to relieve the tension in the room. EOS’ lights gleam tranquil yellow.

“Whatcha thinking about?”  **John** shatters the mood like a dropped mirror.

“Not… much.” 

“It must have been something good, because you smiled.”

“Guess that slipped out.”

“Whatever it was, it made you happy. Tell me.”

John splutters. “Well, it’s a long story, and probably won’t make any sense.”

“What could make less sense than travelling through space and time to a parallel dimension and then having a conversation with yourself?” the blond grins.

He shrugs, releasing the tension in his shoulders, exhales. “There’s no easy way to put this. Where I come from, Stingray’s…”

An expectant nod.

“Fictional,” John finishes, “and my favourite TV show, at that.”

He’s used to being blunt and accurate with his words, no time for embellishment or rephrasing when managing comms. He says what he sees. However, the more relaxed vibe of this  _ other _ universe unwinds him. He can lie back, reduce his professionalism, make friendly conversation with… himself, it seems.

A few hours and copious amounts of confusion later, the pair sit together, laughing, joking, broad smiles on their faces. There were minimal distress calls, thanks to EOS, who had created a fake-John which could relay the messages from the satellite to Tracy Island without cause for concern. Communications were kept brief and to the point lest someone gain suspicion of out-of-character behaviour.

“I’ve had practice,” EOS had said when  **John** raised a skeptical eyebrow at her ploy. 

Practice indeed. John was all too familiar with the last time EOS had pulled something off like this, and tried to shove the unpleasant memories aside. 

EOS wouldn’t have hurt… killed him. 

Would she?

**John** excitedly chatters on, but his words don’t register. He slows, his waterfall of words decelerating to a trickle.

“John? Earth to Thunderbird Five, are you there?”  **John** waves a hand in front of the redhead’s blank stare, startling him out of his daze.

“Sorry, I zoned out for a bit.”

“Too right you did! I just needed a second opinion for something, otherwise I wouldn’t really mind.”

John signals for him to explain.

A deep exhale. “You know how Stingray’s real life according to  _ moi _ , and fictional according to  _ toi _ ?”

A slight nod that tilts to the side with almost feline curiosity.

“Then there must be other universes, where other things are real or fictional, right?”

“Are you saying…?”

“What if… we were a TV show? Not here, obviously, but some other parallel dimension.”

John inwardly cringes. “That sounds wrong.”

“Think about it!”  **John’s** really getting into his stride now. He leaps up from the other bed and begins pacing the length of the room.

“I am, and it  _ still _ sounds wrong. Who would even want to watch us?”

“Dunno. But it would be epic, having a massive fanbase, superfans, excited to see us.”

“It would.” 

“What would our episodes be called?”

John sits up. “You have mission records, right? What if episodes were named after those?”

“Makes sense.” He pauses, spinning on his heels to face the window. “What would yours be, following that logic?”

“Gordon’s in charge of reports, so they’re all either puns or have double meanings.” 

**John’s** eyes widen. “Examples. Need to hear. Now.”

“There’s Bolt From the Blue, Touch and Go, Clean Sweep, Weather or Not…” John reels off a long, long list of wordplays and quips, counting them off his fingers. 

After about five minutes of the pun-valanche, the list draws to a halt. 

“They were amazing!”  **John** declares, “I need to get Gordon to take over records duty, so we can have stuff like that in our ‘verse.”

This piques his interest. Cue the confused cat expression. 

“Pardon me for asking, but who’s on records, if not Gordon?”

“Fa- Scott, of course,” he replies slowly, “he’s all about secrecy so ours are fairly ambiguous, meaning that if someone discovered them then they would have no clue about what’s going on. It’s things like Path of Destruction, Day of Disaster, Terror in New York City yada yada.”

John acknowledges him with a curt nod.

“Ooh! I wanted to show you something else. Wait here.”  **John** says.

Like he had any other choice.

**John** disappears from the room and returns moments later with a leaf of paper in his grasp.

“Here.”  **John** hands him a worn photo. “How different is your family to mine?”

John smooths out the thick creased paper, revealing three smiling young men and two teens. One of the older three is clearly  **John** ; however much time passed had little impact on his shock of hair, still the colour and texture of cotton wool. 

“Well, that’s you, obviously.” John indicates the area of the photo.

**John** blinks in agreement. “Can you work out any others?”

The tallest  _ has _ to be  **Scott** . Different hair, granted; in this image it looks almost black and is by far the darkest of the five, but he sports the same slicked-back style and has the same dimpled grin.  **Alan’s** the one on the end, eyes sparkling in the camera flash and a mischievous smile quirking up his lips. 

“If that’s Alan, and that’s Scott…” John muses, pointing out the figures, “then the other two have to be Gordon and Virgil, but they look  _ nothing _ like what they do in my universe.”

“But you recognise them, right?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

**Gordon** has bronze hair falling neatly into a side part but the same twinkling russet eyes.

“Who’s that… the woman on the end?” John asks, unfurling the picture further. Dark almond-shaped eyes gaze back at him from under voluminous lashes. Her curly black hair bounces in a bob just above her shoulders.

“You don’t know her?”

“Never seen her before in my life.”

“She’s called Tin-Tin; she’s Kyrano’s daughter. Kyrano works on the island, cooking and cleaning and other odd-jobs.”  **John** explains.

“Kayo’s surname is Kyrano.”

“Kayo?” Now it’s  **John’s** turn to look puzzled.

“We don’t have a Kyrano, but Kayo lives with us. She’s head of International Rescue Security and has her own Thunderbird too.”

“No way! Tin would go berserk if she found out she has her own vehicle, despite it being a universe away.”

John makes to reply, but a loud beeping tone cuts him off.

EOS pauses, lights flickering.

“I think you’d better take this call, John.”

He shifts around on the stretcher, before EOS clarifies: “Not you. Other John.”

“FAB”,  **John** replies, saluting the AI and stepping over to the mobile comms unit parked in the corner of the room.

**Jeff’s** image appears on screen. “Hey, son,” he rumbles, a smile creasing his face.

“Who’s that?” calls John. The gurney is angled away from the unit, and his broken ribs hinder his movement and prevent him from turning round.

“No-one, don’t worry,”  **John** hisses, praying that his dad didn’t hear.

“Who are you talking to?”  **Jeff** frowns.

He flips back round to face the screen. “Just… a rescue victim, I’m currently monitoring a situation.” 

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

“I’d better not disturb you then. Just checking in, the usual.”

“I’m fine, Father.”

“You seemed a bit off-colour earlier, are you feeling alright?”

EOS may have  _ not _ been as well-practised in the art of deception as he thought. Her fake projections had a certain cyan tint to them.

“I’m  _ fine _ , Father.”

“It’s coming to the end of your rotation. Are you sure you don’t need to come down early?”

Drat. He’d forgotten about that, in all the excitement.

“I’m sure, Father. In fact,” he swallows, “I wouldn’t mind staying up another three months. Let Alan have a break.”

**Jeff** chuckles. “Now I know something’s definitely wrong. You wouldn’t stay up there longer than necessary if someone gave you a million dollars.”

He sighs. “FAB, Father.”

“That’s better. I’ll get Alan and Scott to pick you up, ETA twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes. Okay, thank you, see you later, bye.”

“Now wait a mome-”

**John** cuts the link. 

John rolls his head back, ginger forelock flopping out of his eyes. “Who were you calling?”

“Doesn’t matter,”  **John** answers far too quickly, “but we’re getting you Earthside in half an hour. I’ll introduce you to my family, and we can work out how to get you back to your ‘verse.”

He smiles. “FAB.”


	4. Two 'Birds With One Stone: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> Back to TAG now, seeing how the Tracys are coping and what they're going to do about it. This turned out rather long, so I've split it into two parts.  
> Minor reference to S2 E20 The Man From TB5.

**Two ‘Birds With One Stone: Part 1: TAG Universe**

Scott Tracy doesn’t cry.

Rephrase that.

Scott Tracy mustn’t cry.

He has to keep his defences strong, his face a mask, becoming the backbone that supports his family should they fall.

He’ll wring his hands together, pace up and down, work himself to breaking point instead. Plugging his emotions can have dire consequences. It would lead to eruptions, outbursts, explosions of fiery temper, all of which are _terrible_ for one’s mental state when constantly bracing the Tracys’ castle walls.

He knows that. So, he releases feelings slowly and with control, like equalising the pressure in Three’s airlock to avoid being blown into space.

But the volcano of his mental wellbeing is growing unstable, and he needs to just let it all pour out of him. No time for a slow release.

Only John had heard him at his weakest.

It was the dead of night. Scott lay slumped on the sofa, head in his hands, face contorted with grief as he choked back wave after tidal wave of sobs. All of a sudden John was there. His cyan brilliance illuminated the room, and the tears that tracked paths down Scott’s cheeks glowed blue.

Simple words. Soft reassurement. The wispy touch of a holographic hand, reaching out to drift through Scott’s fingers. 

He smiled. Tangible or not, he felt his brother’s love and warmth breaching the many thousands of miles between them.

But John is gone. Nobody to help him, to support him.

So he keeps a stiff upper lip, wedges a metaphorical cork in his metaphorical volcano and tries his hardest to help and support the others.

-o)O(o-

Scott fidgets, nervous as the rest of the family huddled around the table.

“Well?” 

Brains turns away from the hologram projected in front of him with a sigh. “I’m s-sorry, Scott. Thunderbird F-Five is nowhere on my scanners. John is missing.”

“Brains, we established that yesterday! Where is he?” snaps Scott.

“I’m af-fraid I c-can’t work that out at the m-moment. He has d-disappeared without a trace.” Brains pushes his glasses further up his nose. The stress makes him stutter more.

“The r-remote cameras’ feeds should be c-coming in now. Their connection is v-very slow, because-”

“I get it! No Thunderbird Five to relay the signals.” Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Look, I’m sorry, Brains, I really am, it’s just- We lost Mum, and Dad, and we can’t lose anyone else.” 

Brains places a comforting hand on Scott’s shoulder, fixing him with a deep, reassuring brown-eyed gaze. “We _will_ find him. I p-promise.”

Scott acknowledges this but the words echo in his mind, their meaning never truly sinking in.

A _ping_ from the holo-projector, and Brains straightens up. “We have a v-visual on where Th-Thunderbird Five should be. Assessing now.”

The video feed is demoralising, to say the least. Black, empty void with a faint glimmer of light that could be distant stars, or-

“Z-Zooming in for a c-closer look.”

Shards of twisted metal reflect the sunlight, and upon closer inspection, none of them belong to the station.

Scott doesn’t know whether this eases him or not. He’s glad that Five isn’t part of the wreckage, yet leaves the conundrum of where it vanished to.

He squints. The logo emblazoned on one of the metal sheets in garish yellow and blue is… _familiar_.

Pushing Scott aside, Kayo peers at the image, her lime-green eyes flickering in the weak holographic glow.

“Langstrom Fischler,” she snarls.

Scott buries his head in his hands and groans. “Kayo, would you do the honours?”

“It would be my _pleasure_ ,” she beams, all resentment vanishing at a chance for glorious vengeance.

Sixty seconds later, Shadow’s sonic boom rumbles through the villa as the plane streaks across the ocean. Her hologram flashes up; Kayo is fully uniformed and clutches the invisible steering wheel with newfound ferocity.

“And you let her go because…” Virgil glares at Scott.

“Last time idiot Fischler tried something that injured our family, Scott promised me that _when_ it happened again I could hunt him down,” Kayo interjects, “and I am _so_ looking forward to this.” She whoops with glee, rubbing her hands together before latching back onto Shadow’s controls.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Kayo’s behaving kinda… evil genius-y,” remarks Gordon.

She laughs. “Guys, I’m fine.” The malice in her voice returns. “Which is more than I can say for Fischler when I’m done with him.”

“Speaking of Fischler…” Virgil prods at a hologram from his tablet, flicking up an extensive list, “do we even know where he is? These are his addresses from the last year _alone_ , and he’s probably changed again by now.”

“Nope.” Gordon pops the ‘p’.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Langstrom Fischler is hiding out in London, which is precisely where Kayo is heading, and will soon be joined by none other than Lady P.”

“And you have this information how?”

Gordon claps a hand on his older brother’s shoulder with surprising vigour. “Virgil, my friend, what you don’t know can’t hurt ya.”

Virgil groans. “That worries me.”

Incoming comm-call, preceded by a beeping tone.

“FAB 1 to Tracy Island.”

“Lady Penelope!” the three remaining Tracys answer in unison.

“Boys, we’re here in London and scouting the area for Fischler’s hideout.” Her voice is a diamond, clear-cut and with an elegance that belies its sheer strength, should needs arise for it. “Kayo has yet to arrive, but we suspect she’ll soon be here.”

Kayo’s hologram appears. “Seven minutes exactly,” she calculates, “I’m flying over Spain as we speak.”

-o)O(o-

“Excellent.” Penelope snaps the lid of her compact down with one swift movement. FAB 1 weaves through neon-adorned crowns of London skyscrapers which jut through loose gauze clouds blanketing the sleeping city. A cold silhouette sweeps over them, arrow-tipped and slender. A chill dances through the air. Glancing up through FAB 1’s glass roof, Penelope smiles. 

“She’s here.”

Kayo brings Shadow round so the two craft hover alongside one another. 

“I’m going to leave her on autopilot and fly down. The turns are too tight, I could never make them in Shadow. You’ll be fine in FAB 1,” she calls, breeze tugging away her words as soon as she opens her mouth to speak. She salutes Penelope and Parker, who doffs his cap in response. Kayo then opens the cockpit and dives into the crisp London night. 

For a moment urban background noise dominates, street cats’ yowls and sirens blaring in the distance. No sound from Kayo. 

Penelope’s mind drifts to _unpleasant_ situations; of tumbles from the sky at heights impossible to survive; of inevitability twisting back at you, a few seconds making the difference between life and afterlife; of that heart-in-mouth moment when it must be too late. She forces herself to peer through the window, anticipating a dark Kayo-shaped splat on the road hundreds of metres below the cloud layer.

She sees nothing. Despite this, the comms channel stays stubbornly silent. 

“Kayo?” Penelope ventures, scared for a possible lack of reply. 

With a whisper of prosthetic titanium wings, Kayo emerges through the clouds and touches down on FAB 1’s bonnet. 

“Oh, Kayo!” The relief in Lady Penelope’s voice spills into her words, “Are you hurt? What happened?”

Kayo shrugs, her red-striped wingsuit catching the wind. “Minor technical issue, but it’s fine now.”

“h’Is she h’alright? h’Is she h’alright?” Parker leans over the steering wheel, clutching it to control the car’s flight path.

“Yes, of course Parker, she just _said_ she’s fine,” replies Penelope.

“No! h’I mean FAB 1! Kayo’s chipping ‘er paintwork!”

Kayo turns around to assess the damage, and creates two _new_ grooves as the tips of her wings scrape against the car’s pink body.

“Oops. Sorry about that.” For safety’s sake, she clips a harness onto FAB 1 from her utility belt before retracting the offending wings.

“Better,” Parker huffs, leaning back heavily in his seat.

“Now now, Parker, it was an accident. Besides, I believe we have more important things that concern us.” She gestures to a tall, rickety building that seems half-completed: covered in skeletal, unsteady scaffolding that lurches in the breeze. 

Scott, Virgil and Gordon appear in hologram form. “Any luck?” Scott starts.

“We have, actually. Take a look at this.” She angles her compact so the holographic transmitter focuses on the tower.

Virgil sharply draws in his breath. “That does… _certainly_ not meet construction guidelines. It’s as if someone purposefully ignored every safety precaution in place, and then rushed the building work by four-to-eight months.”

“Which is why I expect Fischler to be behind it.” 

Gordon snorts. “Alan’s going to love seeing Fischler’s latest disaster. I’ll go get him.” His icon leans to the side, then disappears as he moves out of range of the holo-transmitter. 

Scott’s lips twitch into a minuscule smile. Good. If Gordon’s still joking, then things will be fine.

He hopes. 


	5. Two 'Birds With One Stone: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed (not sure what the verb is) or commented on this work, it means so much to me!  
> Now for part 2: still in TAG universe, and Fischler meets the wrath of Penelope and Kayo.

**Two ‘Birds With One Stone: Part 2: TAG Universe**

FAB 1 lands neatly on the roof, blue jets spiralling in on themself to transform back into regular wheels (or as regular as a flying car could have). Parker hops out, then pulls the door on Penelope’s side open, so she can exit like she’s at a charity gala and not perched atop a dilapidated safety hazard.

Before she has a chance to step onto the roof, a ball of beige fluff leaps out and begins gnawing at Parker’s trouser cuff.

Parker gently pushes the pug away from his legs, muttering “Steady on, Sherbet,” whilst offering his arm to Lady Penelope.

With an elegant flourish she stoops down and lifts Sherbet in one fluid movement, balancing him on her arm whilst stroking the top of his head.

“Who’s a good boy?” she croons, ruffling Sherbet’s fur then setting him by her feet.

Sherbet yaps and lolls his tongue.

“Indeed, Sherbet! We’d best get going.” She tilts her head in Parker’s direction. “Come along now.”

Kayo watches this unfold from FAB 1’s bonnet, amusement slithering across her features, then dismounts. Her boots make no sound on impact. She pads after Penelope and Parker, the click-click of Penelope’s heels leading the way to the stairwell.

They regroup in a corridor, under the flicker of faulty lights. Kayo presses her ear to the door of what she presumes is Fischler’s office - her suspicions are soon confirmed by a series of loud bangs and the squeak of a swivel chair cannonballing around the room.

Penelope lifts Sherbet and places him in Parker’s hands. “Look after him, will you?”

“Yes, m’lady,” Parker sighs, holding the pug at arm’s length while it tries to lick his face with a sloppy pink tongue.

Kayo signals to Penelope, who replies with a terse nod. 

She whispers  _ three, two, one _ and Penny draws her weight onto her left foot, twists her hips and strikes the door with the heel of her shoe.

It bursts open on Fischler and Kinnear engrossed in argument. 

“Good job,” marvels Kayo.

Penelope acknowledges this with a half-smile. She then turns to the room and loudly clears her throat to get the attention of the two men, who are utterly oblivious to their entrance.

Kinnear glances up and mouths  _ thank you _ in Kayo’s direction.

Fischler, on the other hand, maintains a steady scowl at his employee.

“You there! Whatever your name is,” he calls, “get the door, will you?”

Kinnear sighs. “I’m Kinnear, sir, and I think this is for y-”

“I didn’t ask! Get the door, now.”

Muttering  _ you asked for it _ under his breath, Kinnear nods at the two women flanking the door frame. 

“Ladies, he’s all yours.”

“Thank you, Kinnear.” Kayo smiles politely. This polite smile transforms into one belonging to a cat confident of their kill. She turns to Kinnear’s employer. 

“Good evening, Langstrom.”

“Oh? It’s you. I know you. You’re… not the takeaway person.” He scoots backwards on the swivel chair until he collides with the back wall.

Kayo takes a slow, deliberate step towards him. “That’s right,” she purrs.

“We’re with International Rescue.” Penelope declares, moving forward to join Kayo.

Fishler says nothing, gaze flicking from the formidable duo in front of him to other, more significant things, like the ceiling fan minus one blade or the peeling wallpaper.

“International Rescue?” His voice rises several octaves in that short sentence. “International Rescue - remind me again, who is that?”

Kayo scoffs at the obvious lie told to buy himself time, and Penny continues. 

“Don’t you remember those weather drones?”

Fischler emits a high-pitched squeak which she takes as a ‘yes’.

“And Cirrus?”

“Of course, of course! A genius invention, if I do say so myself.”

An arched eyebrow from Kayo suggests that this is  _ not _ the time to brag about his creations.

“And the rocket on a comet?”

“How could I forget? I would have helped countless people, something that  _ you _ lot-” he stands up and jabs an accusing finger towards Penelope, “-should know about.”

Kayo flicks up the black-and-red wasp-striped wings of her flight suit, increasing her height enough to graze the ceiling, and intimidates Fischler into a corner.

“Listen here. You know  _ nothing _ about helping people. You always make things worse, and when we try to fix  _ your _ mess, you intervene. Leave our successful organisation out of your  _ failures _ .” She spits the last word out like a sour taste on her tongue.

A long silence, while Fischler gathers inner strength and Kayo quells her erratic breathing.

“Alright, alright, keep your hair on,” Fischler begins, holding his hands above his head in surrender, “but was it really that bad?”

“Yes,” growls Kayo.

“Take that comet for example,” Fischler tries to back away from the force of nature that is Kayo’s temper, realises there is nowhere to back away  _ to _ , and decides to lighten the mood with an ill-placed pun.

“You could say, I guess, that I got two ‘birds with one stone! Well, giant space rock,” he jokes.

Bad idea. Kayo dislikes jests and wordplays at the best of times. 

This is, to be frank,  _ not _ the best of times. 

She lunges for Fischler’s throat, any trace of her calm, composed demeanour obliterated.

“Don’t. Joke. About people’s  _ lives _ like that,” she hisses, pinning him against the wall, “they could have died. Half of our organisation gone, and both of our space-faring Thunderbirds too.” Kayo releases her grip on Fischler, who tugs at his collar and gasps for air.

“Alright, alright! Calm down, Miss Stressy-Pants. I can see why you’re angry, but it’s not my fault that they almost died. I mean, who’s fault is it that they chose to be International Rescue anyway? Not mine. You can’t blame me for their decisions. And-” he adds, holding up a hand to silence Kayo, who is bristling with anger, “-so what? They probably  _ could have died _ every day that week. Just because they  _ could have died _ messing around with something of mine which was working perfectly, by the way, doesn’t mean it’s my fault!”

Penelope shoots him a glare that screams  _ shut your big mouth or you’ll regret it _ . 

Fischler, being his usual ignorant self with the emotional capacity of his ceiling fan, doesn’t pick up on this blindingly obvious clue.

He continues. “To be fair, I’m  _ surprised _ one of them hasn’t popped their clogs already.”

Penelope isn’t happy at that statement.

Kayo is  _ livid _ .

She swings her arm back, fingers curling into a tight fist, shrieking vehement curses as she prepares to punch him square in the jaw.

The blow doesn’t land.

Kayo feels a tug on her elbow and looks back to see Penelope restraining her. Patient blue eyes subdue smouldering green.

A sigh. Relaxing her taut muscles, Kayo steps out of Penelope’s way to let the London agent do some … agenting.

“Langstrom Fischler,” she begins, deportment impeccable and compact balanced in the palm of one hand, “we, from International Rescue, are here to confront you about  _ this _ ,”

She flips the device open and a hologram blooms from its centre, filling the distance between her and the man with a number of brain cells you could count on one hand with the velvet void of space.

“And?” he snaps.

Penelope says nothing, only purses her lips and zooms in further. The projection shifts and expands upon a slab of metal, embellished with a neon logo.

Fischler’s eyes grow inhumanly wide and the shocked expression over his features threatens to swallow his entire face.

“No way,” he murmurs, “it actually worked!”

He straightens up, brushes down his jacket and adjusts an invisible bow tie. With a cough, he clarifies, “Obviously I knew it would work.”

Penelope pounces like a snow leopard upon this snippet of information.

“What would work, exactly?” she inquires.

“My portal!” Fischler dives for a scrap of paper on his desk, shakes a tin’s worth of biscuit crumbs from it and presents the sheet to Penelope. 

As she scrutinises it, Kayo fixes the man with a glare so intense he’s surprised it doesn’t burn through the wall and level half the city.

“Right! Well, this is… interesting. Can you explain more?” Her voice may be as clear and calm as ever, but Kayo notices the subtle changes in pitch, tone, mannerisms - Penelope is anxious. Cracks in her flawless facade are rare but unmistakable.

Fischler launches into an elaboration on his professed ‘genius’ idea, complete with names for various parts that Penelope is positive do not exist.

She sifts through his frenetic babbling for anything useful, nodding crisply whenever Fischler asks of her opinion.

So far, nothing.

Then she catches a sentence, taps Kayo on the shoulder and asks her to call Brains.

Penelope spins back to Fischler.

“Apologies, Langstrom. Could you rewind a bit?”

Fischler’s had enough experience of this intimidating pair to know that when they ask you to do something, you do it. Or face terrible consequences, such as Kayo’s laser-beam stare.

Dutifully, he backs up a paragraph or two and continues the tsunami of (mostly pointless) details.

Penelope listens, unblinking, then holds up a hand for silence. 

“I think we’ve heard quite enough. Brains, did you get all that?”

The engineer’s hologram perches on Kayo’s wrist.

“I certainly d-did, l-lady Penelope. We now have en-nough evidence to work out a clear solution, and try to b-bring John home.”

A warm smile creases her face. “That’s incredible news! Did you hear that, boys?”

But Brains has already signed off, no doubt keen to start the necessary experiments.

“I’ll bring them the news when I get back.” She bounds across the room and into the corridor with three swift steps, pokes her head back into the room and grins.

“ _ Ciao _ , Fischler,” Kayo calls with a wave, then vanishes.

Fischler whimpers. 

“Does this mean that we’re friends, now?” 

Penelope extends a regal arm to grab him by the shoulder, preventing him from sidling out of the room. “I still don’t forgive you for what you did. You’ve caused so much trouble for us, and done unforgivably  _ stupid _ things-” she feels him flinch under her grasp, “and rushed without thinking or looking before you leap and that has caused so much harm and damage that could have ended up so much worse than it was-”

She loosens her grip, tears silently leaking down her jaw. Fischler massages his shoulder. 

“What I’m trying to say, Langstrom, is that they could have  _ gone _ that day. I know you don’t care what chaos your machines cause. But they’re so close they’re  _ family _ . Alan nearly died. Virgil nearly died. I nearly died. And John - he’s been impacted by you the most, crushed by G-forces or incinerated by an asteroid in re-entry or sucked through a malfunctioning  _ portal _ .” The hurt bleeds into her voice like the mascara round her damp eyes.

“So I ask you to do one good thing in your entire ignorant life, and that is to help us fix things, to make them right. Would you accept our offer?”

Fischler nods dumbly, primitive emotions destroyed by this heartfelt address.

“Thank you,” Penelope whispers without waiting for an answer, dipping her head and making for the exit.

He doesn’t know what to think. He sways on the spot like a strand of kelp in the current, silent and for once, speechless.

Parker hands the wriggling ball of fluff and floppy tongue to her Ladyship as she closes the door behind her.

“That was beautiful, m’lady,” he sniffs, bringing his arm up to his face to dry his eyes on the jacket sleeve.

She pats down her dress with one hand, supporting Sherbet with the other. “Thank you, Parker. Do you think it did the trick?”

“Certainly, m’lady. You were very persuasive.”

“You think?” She pulls out her compact and bats her eyelashes, checking them in the tiny mirror. “Plays havoc on your mascara, though.”

“H’indeed. Kayo h’asked me to let you know that she’s h’en route to the h’island. Wants to see them personally.”

“Understandable. Very well. Home, Parker?”

He nods. “Home, m’lady.”

Penelope lowers Sherbet to the floor. He yips, trotting behind her and Parker as they make their way back to FAB 1, who patiently awaits their return.

The doors open. They enter. The doors close.

The pink vehicle slips off the rooftop and glides into the murky urban night.

-o)O(o-

Delivering the news in person seemed a better solution, telling them face-to-face rather than over a cold blue hologram. They need to see the warmth in her eyes, the enthusiasm in her voice, the zeal that surrounds her like an aura, because _it’s_ _not_ _over_. 

Not by a long reach.

Tracy Island looms on the horizon. The full moon hovers behind the island’s twin peaks like a silver coin from the giants, light glinting in the surrounding waters.

Shadow melts into the backlit island’s darkness and docks with ease. Scott’s there to meet and escort her up to the lounge. The circles around his weary eyes are as dark as Shadow’s paintwork. She tries not to stare, but makes a mental note to allow him a day off. Scott would decline, of course, being it typical Tracy stubbornness infused into their DNA.

But she has her ways, and persuasive tactics seep through the Kyrano family line like fresh blood.

Later.

Scott turns to her as they enter the lounge, stifling a yawn.

Virgil materialises next to them. “I’ll get coffee,” he says, then disappears to the kitchen. 

They leave it a minute, until they can hear the faint hums of the automatic coffee machine.

“How did it go?” The exhaustion drains from Scott’s usually-confident tone.

She takes a deep breath. “You won’t believe it. Fischler’s agreed to help us, oh - it  _ was _ his fault, by the way - and that mysterious machine…”

Scott raises one eyebrow, curious.

“It’s a portal. A fully functioning one - at least it was, until it sucked Thunderbird Five in.”

His eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Are you saying…?”

She feels her cheeks glow red, the blood rushing to her face as she informs him: “He could still be alive, Scott.”

He sinks into a sofa and presses two pillows to his face.

“That’s incredible!” he mumbles, words muffled by the upholstery.

“I know! Brains has already started working on a solution.”

“That explains the sudden disappearance into his lab with no explanation, followed by clangs of machinery and the occasional explosion.”

A pause. Kayo’s mind whirrs with thoughts of Fischler and possible revenge strategies.

“I really want to punch him,” she suddenly says out loud.

Scott barks with laughter. “Fischler? You and me both, Kay.”

“Glad I’m not the only one.” Her eyes flash like a dying star, full of pure unfiltered power. You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of this Kyrano.

“Who wouldn’t?” Scott throws his arms up. “He’s gone way too far this time. And -” he draws in a ragged breath, each word digging claws into his throat, “if this _doesn’t_ _end_ _well_ , I will hunt him down myself.”

Kayo can read between the lines. If one of Fischler’s machines ends up taking the life of a family member, well…

Hell hath no fury like a Tracy on the warpath.

A crash.

Their heads swivel in unison to the source of the noise.

Gordon stumbles into the room, amber eyes dulled, face ashen, clutching a small silver disc in his right hand. He drops the device in favour of the wall, locking onto it as his legs collapse underneath him. He doesn’t make an effort to get back up.

Scott rushes to support him, followed soon by Virgil, leading Gordon to a spare couch.

“Hey, Gordo,” soothes Virgil, “what happened?”

A beat, then Gordon whispers:

“Alan’s gone.”


	6. Darkest Before Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in TAG, and (hopefully) resolves the previous chapter's tension.

**Darkest Before Dawn: TAG Universe**

His family don’t notice as Alan slips out of the lounge. Ghost tears prickle under his eyelids and he can’t find the strength to blink them away.

This is all his fault. He won’t forgive himself.

He side-steps that  _ one squeaky floorboard _ at the top of the stairs and enters his room, closing the door behind him. All in complete silence. Kayo taught him well.

Midnight moonglow peeps in from beneath the blackout blinds. He draws them open, illuminating the room with silver - also illuminating the clothes strewn over the floor, the bed covers ruffled despite never finding the time to sleep under them. The floor’s much more convenient, if less comfortable.

He hauls the duvet off the bed frame, shakes it out, then reassembles it over the mattress. He deals with the pillow in much the same way.

It looks…  _ presentable _ , now. If this uncharacteristic behaviour doesn’t pique their interest then he doesn’t know what would

A spare ‘projector falls to the floor, evidently having been caught up in the folds and creases of the duvet. It’s small, cheap and plasticky, bought from the mainland one summer, and can’t deal with messages longer than twenty seconds, but it’ll do. He’ll manage. Designed for a quick “I’m popping to the shops,” or “don’t forget to feed the cat,” or “earthquake in Bangladesh, I’ll be back late,” (that last one only applies to International Rescue, he supposes). Alan doesn’t expect the transmissions to be fantastic quality, but hey. It has no memory and is untraceable, which is the only reason he’s kept it.

_ John _ could trace its signal, with Thunderbird Five’s ultra-powerful relays and the most advanced tracking technology this side of the Oort cloud, but  _ John’s not here _ .

This is all his fault. He won’t forgive himself.

A deep breath. Partly to calm his nerves, partly to disguise the cracks in his voice.

He counts down silently. Three, two, one, record. He stabs the activation button.

“Uuh, hi.” He gulps. “This is Alan, you probably know that by now, as this is my room, and you’re my family, but… I’m talking too much. I just want to say-” A red flashing light alerts him of the ten seconds remaining.

“Look, I just need some time away, to calm down, and sort myself out, so don’t worry, I’ll be-”

The recording finishes.

“- fine,” he whispers.

The ‘projector drops from his fingers and lands on the bed, creating a dent in the duvet’s crisp cotton fabric. 

He crouches, hugs his knees to his chest and cries.

Alan cries for his family. He cries for his beautiful, wonderful older brothers who risk life and limb for him on a daily basis, and he’s devastated that he didn’t return the favour when it mattered the most. John - immersed in stars, wide-eyed and curious about the many mysteries of the universe, the one who had snuck onto the roof so many times just to catch a glimpse of a meteor shower, who had introduced him to the concept of  _ space _ and  _ rockets _ at such an early age, who had lain next to him on the hillside with grass prickling at their spines and dewdrops seeping through their clothes and had watched the stars together, shaping memories to last a lifetime or longer - was gone.

_ Gone _ .

This is all his fault.

And he won’t forgive himself.

-o)O(o-

The metal stairs that lead to the hangar clank under the soles of his trainers, but Alan doesn’t suppose anyone will notice his disappearance. The others are too busy poring over that hologram and thinking they can change what’s happened and trying to negotiate to find a way out of this chaos - 

No.

You can’t negotiate with the past. It’s happened. He’s gone.

Then he hears someone cry out above him and the thump of something hitting the ground. The lounge’s floor doubles as the hangar ceiling, so he feels the vibration dissipating through the rock that the villa’s set into and juddering through the staircase and his feet.

For a brief, fleeting moment, guilt settles in his chest.

Should he be doing this?

Alan shakes his head to clear his mind.

Yes.

He needs this break, and his family probably want nothing to do with him if they blame him for what happened - which, Alan concludes, is highly likely.

Moonlight peeks through gaps around the door in the rock face, glinting off Tracy One’s arrowhead body. She’s a beautiful machine, lined up next to her sisters, but dwarfed in comparison to the great green behemoth resting on her struts and overlooking them from the other side of the cavern. 

Two may be the largest and most powerful of their Earth-based craft, but Alan’s interest remains on the small, shiny fleet of single-person jets. 

Before he fully understands what he’s doing, Alan darts across the cold concrete floor, footsteps loud and echoing without the rumble of engines as usual background noise. He brings up the gull-wing doors, settles himself on the pilot’s chair, sinks into the soft leather seating, reaches for the joystick. His fingers curl over the cool metal orb like it was designed for him.

He squints as cold streams of light flood the hangar, the door in the rock face rolling down to allow him to exit.

This is it.

Alan taxis Tracy One forward onto Two’s runway, gives one glance to the glowing metal-and-glass villa nestled in the island’s tropical foliage and lifts the plane into the air. 

-o)O(o-

The Tracy archipelago is a collection of wind-beaten islands in the South Pacific, all the extremities of a volcano slumbering on the seabed poking their noses out of the water. The largest isle is their home, and the closest to that houses the backup generator and other systems too bulky or unstable to put near their place of residence. 

There are others, though.

Forgotten to all but the gulls and albatrosses, these rocky outcrops are only cliffs and scrubby grass. The tide swallows them twice every twenty-four hours.

This one is too insignificant to warrant a name. The place is an area of scrubby, decidedly un-tropical grasses, a squat cliff face that you can slide down with the correct momentum, then a short stretch of golden-white sand littered with pebbles and other flotsam.

He’s been there before - a day trip with Gordon and Thunderbird Four, sunbathing and splashing about in the shallows. Gordon had unofficially christened the place ‘Breakdown Bay’ after Four had nuzzled her way onto the beach and became stranded on the sand when the tide rolled out again.

It had taken both their joint strength and a pulley system fashioned from Four’s grapple lines to get all sixteen tons of precision-engineered yellow submarine back into the water.

Alan’s lips curl into a small smile. They were good times, and the memories bring rays of sunshine to his life whenever he recalls them. He pushes the joystick forward to bring the plane down for a landing on the rocky isle.

Tracy One’s engines disperse a flock of white seabirds in a squawking, flapping melee. They take flight in the plane’s downdraft and scatter like stars through the night sky.

Alan steps down and inhales the ocean breeze, tasting salt on his tongue. The sky is dark, infinite and black in front - he twists behind. Orange, pink tones crawl over the horizon as a new day begins. A few feathers land on his shoulders and he brushes them off. The sound of crashing waves against the far side of the island, where the cliff drops straight into the water, echoes in his ears. As he skids down the slope to the sandy area, this sound fades and gentle ripples replace it. Turquoise waves edged with foam lick at golden sand in regular, rhythmic swells. 

He’s seen those exact hues before, the blue flecked with gold, as an eye colour perhaps-

Guilt sits heavy in his stomach, the extra weight dragging him groundwards. He stumbles dizzily, splays his hands on the sand in hope of regaining his balance, then surrenders and collapses cross-legged.

He needs to feel the ground, be in tune with the Earth. He pulls off his shoes and socks, sinking his bare toes into the sand.

The heat stored by the beach from yesterday's sunshine seeps through his shorts and through his body. He feels as if his skin is glowing, illuminated by the full moon’s radiance and the warmth beneath. Trapped between two forces of light. Yet, with the golden pressure surrounding him, a patch of dense darkness refuses to cooperate. It stubbornly claws into his insides, winding inky tendrils around his spine, across his lungs, through his heart.

It squeezes.

Alan lets out a choking gasp.

There’s nothing physical restraining him, only the emotional burden upon his shoulders.

He needs to release. It needs to  _ go _ .

He stretches out one arm for a stone, rock, anything within grasping distance. After a few seconds of scrabbling around, his fingers curl around a flat pebble, seaworn and smooth. He tests its weight in the palm of his hand, pauses.

Then he tosses it at the ocean, watches it bounce once, twice off the surface of the water and sink.

Something breaks off and vanishes from the void in his chest. A surge of ecstasy blossoms inside him.

He leans back, sweeps his arms wide then draws them close. A myriad of flotsam and jetsam in various shapes and sizes comes tumbling back to him. He grins, picks up a rock then skims it off the water, feeling the darkness inside him start to leave.

-o)O(o-

Virgil lifts his head at the faint sound of engines. A red speck glides off his runway and turns a sharp east. 

Gordon lightly taps Scott on the back. 

“Go after him,” he whispers, letting the arm drop to his side. “I’ll be fine, but Alan needs you now and you’re the best pilot here.” He turns to his other older brother. “No offence, Virge,” he says playfully, but his voice is thick with hurt and loss.

“None taken.”

Scott gives a sharp nod, fatigue pushed to one side and replaced with military authority.

“Tracy One’s got a tracker, you can follow that,” Virgil adds.

Gordon raises a weak hand to speak. “Alan’s probably headed for one of our other smaller islands, check those if you can. We’ve… been there before, together, and he would maybe head for them.”

“FAB,” Scott says, heading for the light brackets that mark the entrance to his launch chute.

A silence so thick you could toast it with Thunderbird One’s afterburners hangs in the air after he leaves.

“He’ll be okay,” says Virgil finally. Although, Gordon’s not sure exactly which ‘he’ Virgil is referring to.

Both missing brothers, with luck.

Both, however, could be too much to hope for.

-o)O(o-

The grey rock blends into the surrounding ocean, and if not for Tracy One perched atop it like a beacon then Scott would have flown right past. He swings Tracy Two around in a wide arc, dipping her port wing towards the sea as she approaches for a touchdown.

Runway landings are conventional. VTOL landings are  _ not _ . Nevertheless, they are much more efficient and the Tracys had given up being conventional twelve years ago.

Scott hops out of Tracy Two, stoops and pulls off his socks and shoes. Gritty sand sticks to the soles of his feet, blown over onto the rocks by the playful coastal breezes.

Alan sits cross-legged and barefoot on the beach with his back to the cliff. His trainers lie discarded beside him.

A flicker of movement and a stone sails across the sea, glances off the water’s surface, distorting the moon’s silver trail with a series of ruffles.

“Alan?” Scott ventures.

Either Alan doesn’t hear or he chooses not to.

He tries again. “Alan!”

Little bro twists a microscopic amount towards him, then snaps back to facing the horizon. Another projectile skips over the water.

Scott closes his eyes and decides on a different approach. He side-steps the worst of the cliff’s sharp rocks, catching his balance on the beach. Cool sand oozes between his toes and a chill wind nips the back of his neck.

“Look, Alan, I’m not angry with you.”

A mumbled comment that might be  _ yes, you are _ .

“I can leave if you want.”

No confirmation or denial of this option, so Scott takes another step. His feet sink into the dense, damp sand so a trail of concave prints leads back to the cliff.

He continues. “Did you tell Gordon? What with John going missing-”

A rock hurled with considerably more force than the others somersaults over the water and crashes into the waves, sending up a plume of ocean in its place.

Alan scowls.

Scott places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “He’s alone. Immediate older brother and immediate younger brother have disappeared, and he’s breaking down. Before I left he couldn’t even stand up, he was so distraught.”

Guilt ripples across Alan’s face. The new pebble in his grip, poised to throw, drops to the ground.

“I’ve been awful,” he mumbles, blue eyes filling with hot tears.

“No, Allie. You haven’t.”

Alan looks up. Scott’s wide, kind eyes mirror his own.

“You’ve been stressed. We all have, and we all deal with it in different ways.” Scott starts to caress Alan’s hair, combing through the fine, down-like strands. 

“But what I did was wro-”

“No such thing as wrong. Everyone copes differently in times like these.” He plants a tender kiss on the top of Alan’s head. Soft blond hairs tickle his cheeks.

There are words lodged in Alan’s throat, lumping together in a ball of raw emotion that refuses to move.

His lips say thank you but his voice says nothing. The only sound that escapes is a small, pained sob from the back of his throat. 

Words are not needed. Scott continues to stroke his hair, teasing out his quiff which is crisp with surplus hair gel, separating the feathery wisps from each other. Alan settles into the simple motion. The warm, breathing presence of an older brother who loves, who cares, who would move the galaxy to ensure his safety, is right  _ here _ . 

He’s never letting go again. 

“I love you,” Alan murmurs with his face buried in Scott’s shoulder.

“Love you too, Allie.” The arms enveloping him squeeze tighter. 

They cling to each other like a lifeline, waves lapping against their feet with the rhythm of dawn percussion as the sun lifts over the Pacific, burning the sky a brilliant pink. 

Day begins. 

And for the first time in over twenty-four hours, Alan feels okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)  
> Next chapter: TOS! How's John adjusting to this new world?


	7. Building Bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> Okay, so back to the TOS universe. I mainly write in TAG so this was a *small* challenge for me, if there are any blinding errors please let me know.  
> Hope you enjoy!

**Building Bridges: TOS Universe**

**John** allows a satisfied smile to melt over his face as Earth grows closer through Three’s panoramic windows. Both  **Alan** and  **Scott** had accepted their interdimensional traveller easily into the family, and - when they thought John was out of earshot - promised to keep the secret from their father. He didn’t have time to explain why, but when back on the Island he could elaborate and inform the others. They also need to know of the… current arrangement.

John shifts on the stretcher next to him, propping himself up on his good elbow. His ethereal blue-green eyes sweep over Three’s consoles, absorbing this unfamiliar rendition of a familiar place. Puzzlement flickers across his features.

“Different?”  **John** prompts, tipping his head back and locking his eyes with upside-down turquoise.

“Different,” he admits with a tight smile, “I never took into consideration how different things could be from… what I’m used to.”

John exhales, careful not to agitate his broken ribs.

“This is the multiverse,” he says with quiet awe. “It’s interesting to think how one decision changed all  _ this _ .” With his final word, John rolls onto his back and gestures to the ceiling of Three’s lounge.

“What’s the issue?”  **John** gasps and presses his hand to his heart. “Don’t you like the colour scheme?”

John wrinkles his nose. “Beige is impractical. Red and silver are much more visible in space.”

“Doesn’t matter. Three’s hardly ever on missions, anyway. She’s mostly used for shuttling people and supplies to and from Thunderbird Five.” He pats one of the walls affectionately. “And you’re good at that, aren’t you, girl?”

Thunderbird Three’s engines belch as if to reply and the ship puts on a burst of speed, pinning them to their respective seating arrangements.

He grins. “Hear that? We’ll be home in no time.”

John freezes like Mateo Island’s internet connection.

“You okay?”

No response.

“Did that head injury affect more than my scanners could pick up? Do you need me to get any h-”

John holds up a blue-gloved hand and blinks, long and deliberate.

“I’m fine. Just getting used to the idea of a home that’s not… home.”

The roar of rocket engines fills what would be silence.

An awkward cough. “Gee, sorry. I guess I never considered how you’d feel about all this. Tact was never one of my strong points.”

“Me neither.” A pause, then John splutters, “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault that I ended up here, and you’ve done all you can. Thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

“Let me think.” He gives a lopsided grin, counting off the points from his fingertips. “Thank you for sorting my injuries, offering to help me and EOS… and saving my life.”

**John’s** cheeks flush the same colour as Three’s external paintwork. “No welcome. I mean, you’re a problem. I mean, argh!” He buries his head in his hands, takes a deep breath, then glances up. 

“I did what anyone would do, right?” he says in a small voice.

“Of course!” John smiles. “I’m glad you did, otherwise-”

“You’d be-”

They let the statement hover unfinished in the air.

“How’s EOS, by the way?” asks  **John** , searching for a conversation starter that hopefully won’t lead to ominous ends.

“Oh, not too bad.” John pats the newly christened EOS-Drive coupled to his baldric. “She’s safe in here, and things are safe from her. Did I tell you about the time she hijacked the bagel dispenser?”

“No, you haven’t.” A pause. “I kinda have a feeling it doesn’t end well.”

John laughs a low, mirthful sound like summer rain or birdsong. “We had to explain why baked delicacies were stuffed down Global One’s exhausts to Ridley herself, and let’s just say that she and EOS  _ still _ haven’t made up.”

“And that’s putting it lightly,” another voice chimes in. The ring of lights on the EOS-Drive glow blue, and to answer  **John’s** wordless question: “I can hear you, you know.”

Not creepy. Not creepy  _ at all _ .

“Nice to meet you, EOS. Again.”

“Would you like to hear the rest of the story?” she trills with an audible smirk, evidently pleased with herself in succeeding to irritate John’s girlfriend.

“Oh… er, yes please.”

John delicately pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, prompting EOS to launch into a gilded narration of her epic saga of good versus evil.

They’re still happily conversing as Thunderbird Three glides through the upper atmosphere and towards Tracy Island.

Or, in other words, home.

-o)O(o-

As the seat ascends through the floor, the rocket painting shifts on its axis and realigns with the wall.

“Ah, yes,”  **Alan** comments, his disembodied voice coming seemingly from nowhere until  **John** indicates the speaker embedded in the chair, “Virgil’s off to deal with a volcano in Sumatra. Thunderbird Two should be launching in… three, two one-”

Engines roar and the green blur skims the ocean, VTOL jets raking the water. 

A shape appears in  **John’s** peripheral vision and he stiffens.

“Heya guys, how are you all?”

**John** yelps. “Gordon! Gee, you gave me a fright.”

“Sorry, pal.” He tilts his head, auburn hair flopping into his eyes. “Say, I only remember there being five of us.”

**Scott** narrows his eyes.  **John’s** comm unit beeps and  **Alan** hisses something to him in a low voice.

**John** turns to his elder brother. “Scott, could you take our…  _ guest _ to another room? Quickly, please.”

His eyes flare with cold fire at being ordered around, but he helps John to his feet and exits with a curt ‘FAB’.

Through the doorway, John watches his alternate version animatedly conversing with  **Gordon** . They’re too far away to distinguish individual words but the aquanaut keeps glancing back at him. They catch each other’s eye, and John waves feebly.  **Gordon** returns an enthusiastic naval salute.

Their conversation stops cold as a third person strides towards them.  **John** dips his head in greeting whilst maintaining steady eye contact.

Mumbled words, and a chuckle. 

John doesn’t recognise this new arrival to the dimension. He’s older than anybody he’s met so far, with silver-grey hair and a deep, rumbling voice. Could this be the mysterious Kyrano?

Then again, there’s something oddly familiar about this person. He can’t place  _ what _ , though.

He’ll ask later.

**John** makes his excuses and sidles out of the room, appearing next to  **Scott** almost momentarily.

John restrains himself from asking, ‘Can you teleport?’

The blond shrugs as if in answer to his wordless question. “Come on! We’ve got to go,” he whispers, ushering him and  **Scott** away from the lounge.

Tracy Island does not have a games room. So, according to this logic, the chamber hewn into the volcano which is stuffed with activities like pool, table football and air hockey should (rightfully) not exist.

Tell that to this dimension.

**John** chuckles at his counterpart’s expression, his eyes like flashing LED-bulbs.

“We don’t have a games room,” John says. The confusion he exudes is a physical thing.

“Nope, but we do. Ta-da!” 

As well as the tabletops, several arcade machines slump against the far wall. There’s Pac Man (an octogenarian by now, released nearly a century ago) and a few other joystick-controlled mechanisms, but the device that catches John’s eye isn’t a video game at all.

He strides towards the claw machine, stretching his neck and flexing his one good hand in preparation.

“You do know that we’ve had that ever since we moved to the island, and no-one’s been able to beat it? Probably rigged.”

John smiles.

“Physics,” he mutters, taking up his position in front of the machine and curling his fingers around the controls, “couldn’t be simpler.”

With a few precise twitches, the claw aligns above a large object, hooking and lifting it in one fluid movement before depositing it in the exit chute. He stoops to pick up his prize and it’s a spherical plush seal, of all things, having soft fur and a chubby body and two black button eyes, entirely white with a pastel blue snout. He tucks the plush behind his bandaged arm and begins to stroke it.

“H-how come you can do that and not me?” squeaks  **John** .

The redhead shrugs. “In essence, even though we are the same person, we’ve led different lives and learnt different things.”

A flicker of arctic eyes. “I guess so.”

Approaching footsteps clump against the wooden planks that make up the floor of the hall, followed by lighter, faster staccato clicks.

**Gordon** enters the games room, gallantly escorting the young woman John recognises as  **Tin-Tin** by the arm.

( **Alan’s** video projection neither scowls nor turns a colour to rival a stop sign, and anybody arguing otherwise deserves to be cycled through the airlock).

“I’ve got her up to speed,” the aquanaut assures  **John** . 

**Tin-Tin** gives a note of thanks, slipping her arm away and floating to the centre of the room.

“Oh, do excuse me,” she says, her dark eyes swallowing the morning light like a ravenous black hole, “but is John in here?”

“Which one?”  **Gordon** adds with an impish grin.

She laughs, and it sounds like wind chimes.

“Very funny, Gordon. Both, if they wouldn’t mind.”

She sends a beaming smile towards the two astronauts.

Her ebony hair is woven into an intricate bun secured by two silver chopsticks, all twists and loops and far too impractical for Kayo’s liking. She’s petite, but cuts a formidable figure in a floor-length blush-pink kimono.  **Tin-Tin** has a knife-sharp glint in her eyes like remnants of starlight struggling to escape their infinite depths.

Not to be messed with. 

“How delightful to see you!” she gushes, twirling around them in such a way that her dress billows out behind her like a peacock’s train. It hugs her legs then spills onto the floor in a sakura waterfall.

“It’s nice to see you too, Ka- Tin-Tin,” John replies, cursing inwardly at his slip-up.

“Call me Tin. Easier to pronounce.” She gently grasps John’s good arm by the elbow and leads him, stumbling, to a plush sofa.

“Sit down, lie down. You must be utterly exhausted.”

“No, really. I’m not tired at… all.” A muffled yawn mars his last words.

**Tin** scoffs. “Stuff and nonsense. You need to rest and recover. Come on, now.” She pushes him into the chair with a firmness surprising of such a tiny frame, and John allows himself to sink into the cushions. He places the plush seal under his chin and relaxes into the fluffy fabric. 

“You too, John.” She rounds on the blond and herds him in the direction of the stairwell, and with a squeak of objection, he exits.

Her tone softens. “Now,” she says, hefting over a footstool for John to rest his legs on, “how about some delicious home-made apple pie?”

First time he’d heard  _ delicious _ and  _ home-made _ in the same sentence. John gulps on instinct and it earns him a volley of bemused stares.

When he explains that _no, he really isn’t that hungry,_ **Scott** approaches with clenched fists and blue eyes ablaze.

“You  _ what _ ?”

“Scott!”  **Tin** chides, “Don’t attack our guest. He just isn’t hungry, that’s all. Besides, if John doesn’t want any then that means all the more for you.”

**Scott** considers this for a moment, then vanishes and rematerialises with a plate each in hand. The first supports a generous helping of latticed pie, curls of steam unfurling from it like fern stems.

The second - crumbs. 

**Scott’s** jaw slowly moves and he takes care to keep his mouth closed.

No prizes for guessing where the other piece went.

He closes his eyes, contentment softening his features as he savours the baked delicacy.

“Scott-” sighs  **Tin** in a way that suggests that this isn’t the first time. He brushes stray pastry flakes from his lips and mumbles  _ what? _

**Scott** proceeds to delicately nibble the other slice, holding  **Tin’s** eye contact until she turns away. The chunk of fragrant pie then disappears so fast he practically inhales it.

“That’s good,” he announces.

**John** bounds into the room and declares it a breach of human rights that there wasn’t any pie left for him. He’s changed out of his uniform and into an outfit that only serves to prove John’s suspicions of this universe having a hideous fashion sense ( **Tin-Tin** not included. He has a feeling that if someone dares comment on her clothes then it will be the last thing they ever do).

This dimension’s, excluding  **Tin** , could be worse than Gordon’s.

He barely restrains a laugh.

Never in a million years would he expect to think that.

Then again, never in a million years would he expect to be flung into an alternate universe.

Or exist where home-cooked foods from the Island aren’t listed by the International Poisons Bureau.

Well, here we are.

In a parallel dimension and staring at quite possibly the ugliest clothing in the multiverse.

John sniffs the air and lingering cinnamon spice aroma greets him.

Oh, that smells amazing.

“Actually,” he intones, “apple pie sounds lovely. There isn’t any more, is there?”

**Scott** droops his head at the prospect of less tart heading his way. He produces yet another slice like an amateur magician (amid  **John’s** cries of protest that it is rightfully his) and passes it over with measured reluctance. He has a firm hold on the plate, and John has to tug to free it from his grip.

**Tin** hands him a cake fork, sunlight glinting off its shiny surface. Balancing the plate on the chair’s arm, he presses the fork into the layer of pastry, so fragile it crumbles at the touch and the fork sinks through thick, gooey filling before resounding on the china plate like the peal of bells.

He raises the piece to his mouth and licks it.

Cautiously.

He almost chokes on the intensity of the flavour. Warmth explodes from the tip of his tongue down through his gullet and rushes through him in an instantaneous jolt. He doesn’t know whether it’s the way the pastry melts in his mouth, or the crystals of cinnamon sugar that dissolve with a fizz, or the fat apple slabs stuffed into their golden casing in such abundance, but he loves it. 

Every morsel.

A glow of heat travels down his chest with the last bite and settles in his stomach.

**Tin** laughs at John’s awed expression, his eyes wider than satellite dishes.

“I know that feeling,” she says with a genuine smile, patting tears of mirth from her face with the satin sleeve of her kimono, “it was like that my first time, too. Nobody’s ever tasted anything like Grandma Tracy’s apple pie.”

The comm unit mounted on  **Scott’s** wrist beeps and he holds up the tiny screen to the group.

“Grandma’s coming,”  **Alan** whispers from 22,400 miles in orbit, “get John out of there, now!”

As if heralded by her name, there’s a squawk of rage from the kitchen.

“Who’s been eating all my apple pie?”

The words are muffled through the villa’s walls but the anger in her tone is indisputable.

“I’ll stay here,” says  **Scott** before anyone has a chance to argue otherwise, “now go!”

“My room, it’s closest,”  **John** instructs. He and  **Tin** grasp one arm each and help John to his feet.

It’s an awkward hobble to the stairwell with one of the human crutches a head shorter than the other. What  **Tin** lacks in size, though, she compensates for in willpower, ploughing forward whilst  **John** is forced to keep up the pace on space-wobbly legs.

The flight of stairs to the upper deck seems more like a trek up Olympus Mons than the brisk hop which  **Gordon** can usually clear in three bounds. 

**Gordon** lags behind now, checking the lounge to assure they aren’t being followed and that  **Grandma** bought  **Scott’s** apology-cum-distraction.

They stumble along the corridor to the far end leading to  **John’s** room, push the door open and collapse onto the bed, sending up a mushroom cloud of dust.

John coughs and waves his good hand in front of his face.

“Sorry about that,” grins  **John** sheepishly, “there’s dust everywhere. Haven’t been down for three months, so…” He shrugs.

John’s ribs flare and he gasps, inhaling a lungful of the dust-laden air.

**Tin** produces a pillow the size of a Thunderbird from places unknown and props it up against the bed’s headboard.

“Sit,” she commands, leaning John against it. “You need to rest, and lying down’s going to strain your ribs. Gravity and all.”

He’s too exhausted by the events of the day (and terrified of the human hurricane that is  **Tin-Tin Kyrano** ) to argue otherwise, so he flops into the cushion and gazes at the ceiling. A myriad of glow-in-the-dark stars adorns it, and he notes with pleasure that they are positioned correctly - the same as they would be in the night sky.

A heavy weight flumps onto the mattress at the foot of the bed and sighs. John glances down, turquoise eyes meeting russet brown.

“So,”  **Gordon** drawls, returning the stare with a sparkle in his eyes, “care to explain how you got here?”

Someone coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like ‘portal’.

**Gordon** whips his head round with such speed that John’s surprised it doesn’t fly off.

“What did you say?”

**John** shrugs, pushing back his blond cowlick with two fingers. “Portal. My bet’s on universe travel via a wormhole, or something like that.”

The aquanaut scoffs. “That’s ridiculous! Sounds like a plot of a bad sci-fi story.”

“We’ll see.”

“Will we?”

“When John tells us what actually happened out there. Besides, if not a portal, then what?”

“Warp drives. Obviously.”  **Gordon** folds his arms.

“Oh, here we go again. Warp drives are a scientific impossibility - they  _ don’t work! _ ”

“They do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do!”

“Don’t.”

John is carefully spectating this verbal ping-pong and decides it wise not to intervene should he wish to remain firmly on this mortal coil.

“Do! And - let’s make this interesting.”

**John** raises an eyebrow. “Please continue.”

“If this universe-travel thingamabob happens to be a portal, then I’ll do Five’s maintenance -  _ all of it _ \- for three months.”

He rubs his hands together not unlike an evil genius. “Oh, it is  _ on _ .”

**Gordon** clears his throat. “But - this deal goes both ways. If it turns out to be a warp drive, hyperdrive or anything of that nature, then you have to clean out Four’s filters with a toothbrush.”

**John** shudders but offers a hand for his brother to shake. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

Their heads swivel in unison to look at John.

“So, galactic one,”  **Gordon** begins, “which is it? The portal-”  **John** straightens up, “-or the warp drive?”

John fiddles with the threads of his various bandages, picking at the sling. 

“It was all of a blur,” he admits.  **Gordon** and  **John** hang onto his every word. “I remember Five’s systems shutting down, EOS going offline,” he instinctively glances down to check on the EOS-Drive, still hooked snugly onto his baldric next to the seal plush, “and space sort of… rippling. Then I got knocked out and can’t remember much else.”

“Rippling,”  **Tin** repeats with a thoughtful tone in her voice, “that could be either of the options. I could get Brains to run some tests, and let him work out how John got here, so we can get him back. Our prime directive is to help him return to his own universe. His family - his versions of us - must be terrified!”

Something clicks in  **Gordon’s** mind and he hangs his head. “Gee, we’re sorry. We’ll do anything we can to help.” His tone has a new sincerity to it, deep and solemn.

**John** nods. “I second that.”

“It’s settled then,”  **Tin** confirms, “Scott knows, Alan knows. We just need to inform Virgil and Brains.”

Sweeping across the floor in an elegant sway of her kimono, she draws the curtains to block out the Pacific sunlight. The room darkens instantly.

“Gordon, come on. Let’s head for the runway to greet Virgil when he’s back from that volcano mission.”

Backlit from the corridor, she blends into the shadows like a goddess of the night. 

“We’ll leave you two to rest,” she whispers with a smile, pulling the door closed.

Springs creak and there’s an audible sigh as  **John** positions himself on the end of the bed, careful not to squish his alternate counterpart in the process.

“Why did Gordon suddenly go all… serious about this?” John asks.

A flicker of movement. An exhale. 

“I guess this didn’t happen in your universe, then, otherwise you’d know.”

Before he can ask ‘ _ Know what?’ _ ,  **John** elaborates.

“Back in WASP. Stingray. Gordon loved every moment.” His voice begins to waver, “and all was fine. Then, one day, he was asked to test a new… hydrofoil. Super fast.”

His breath hitches and he gulps, determined not to let himself break down.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” soothes John.

“No. You need to know.” 

A pause as  **John** regains his composure.

“Gordon was so, so excited. He couldn’t sleep. And all of us had been invited to watch him.”

The tears in his eyes glint with the light from the corridor. He draws in a shuddering breath and presses on, “It was perfect. Launched without a hitch, then halfway into the trial run everything went wrong. The hydrofoil capsized at 400 knots. Shattered.”

John listens, aghast.

“We were forced to watch this happen. When they pulled him out of the wreck he had broken practically every bone in his body and he didn’t wake up and when he did, the doctors said he would never walk again.”

Silence. The tips of the curtains flutter, allowing the sunlight to peek through the slits and illuminate the fine dust particles in the air.

“That must have been awful. But he’s okay now, isn’t he?”

A contrived laugh. “Oh, yeah. He’s recovered, typical Tracy stubbornness and all that. As soon as someone said he couldn’t, that made him all the more determined to prove them wrong.”

**John’s** gaze drops. “He suffered so much. He knows what it’s like to be torn away from everything you love, separated from your family. That’s why he wants to help. He can’t abide seeing others in the same pain that he was.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate that.” As the words tumble from his throat he doesn’t know whether he’s referring to  **John** sharing this information with him, or that everyone seems so… willing to help.

Whatever it is, he’s grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question: would you rather have the next chapter be in TOS or TAG? This would really help with organising the chapter order, thank you!
> 
> (Thank you thank you so much for reading :D)  
> *virtual hug*


	8. Familiar Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> Thank you for such positive feedback, every kudos and comment makes my day <3  
> Still in the TOS Universe, and tensions are mounting...

**Familiar Strangers: TOS Universe**

The room is dark and warm like a winter blanket. John lets his gaze drift, sitting up against the headboard with one arm wrapped around the seal plush and the other curled against his chest. He inhales deeply, drawing oxygen into the crevices of his lungs, and along with it the sweet, tropical aroma of palm trees and salt on the breeze. Despite the curtains being drawn the window behind them is flung open, letting a cool gust of air swoop into the room and push out the encroaching humidity.

The hand resting at the base of his ribcage lifts with the curve of his body, slow breaths inflating his lungs. He focuses on this, watches the subtle rise and fall of his chest, closes his mind off from the rest of the world. 

A few minutes of blessed sleep. That’s all he needs. As his eyelids grow heavier he finds himself slipping into a fragile slumber, darkness eclipsing his vision like a stroke of a painter’s brush.

John sleeps lightly. They all do; it’s ingrained into their systems to be alert at a moment’s notice. Up in orbit, separate from the sun’s sway on the Earth, borders between day and night are lax.

He  _ knows _ he sleeps lightly, yet he’s positive that the unforgiving klaxon yanking him from his rest could wake even the most stubborn hibernator.

“International… situation. What’s the rescue?” he mumbles through a yawn. 

His mind’s all muddled, having ensconced itself in the tropical darkness before being rudely (but efficiently) awakened. It was a  _ good _ sleep, as well, in a proper bed and not tethered to a wall to ensure protection from wayward gravity.

A flicker of red in his field of vision, off to one side. He turns to face it. EOS glares at him.

He presumes it’s a glare, as EOS interprets red to be an angry, dangerous colour, and the fact that her lights are narrowed into half-circles suggests her squinting at him.

“EOS, that was… nice. Why did you wake me?”

The lights turn green. “I’m glad to see my alarm is functional, John.” There’s a confident, un-programmed tone in her voice. She’s evolved.

“Why did you… wake me?” He stifles another yawn.

“Simply confirming your sleep cycle was untroubled. As your current state is sub-optimal, I seek to ensure your safety and comfort.”

“Yeah, well, can I sleep? Please?” His voice takes on an edge of irritation that’s much unlike his usual temper. The bulk of his energy is diverted towards reparations, so monitoring emotions comes second.

“By all means.”

And there it is. He settles into the simple rhythm of his breathing, clutching the plush seal and stroking its fleecy fabric. The warm air tickles the back of his throat as he relaxes his muscles and sinks into the mattress, eyelids drooping-

“John?”

“What is it?” he snaps, far too loud for his liking.

“I want you to know that however preposterous the previous twenty-four hours have been, I’m glad that I spent it with you.” Her lights briefly flash turquoise.

“Oh.” Heat rises to his cheeks. “Me too. Thank you, EOS.”

“My pleasure. Now, about that designated rest period?”

John closes his eyes, smiling. Moments later the sound of birds twittering to one another fills the room. It doesn’t startle him, more pleasant than an annoyance.

“I hacked into the microphones on the far side of the Island,” EOS explains quietly but with an unmistakable smirk, “so you’re hearing the calls of the tui, the parakeet and the fantail among others.”

It’s beautiful.

“Thank you, EOS,” John murmurs, falling into a dreamless sleep.

-o)O(o-

John stumbles through the double doors and into the tropical morning, blinking away golden dust from the corners of his eyes. The patio’s white stone slabs throw the light back into his face. When the nebulous shapes unblur, he can distinguish the aquanaut and the pilot having a tense chess battle.  **Gordon** plonks a rook forward several squares, swipes  **Scott’s** remaining bishop then leans back, satisfied.

**John** reclines on a nearby deckchair, dark aviators perched on his nose as he basks in the warmth. His skin, pale like he’s carved from ice, reflects the light as brilliantly as the patio. John has to squint past the white glow.

**Gordon** glances up at John’s bleary, gravity-addled self.

“Ah, our cosmic commuter returns once again,” he beams with a broad sweep of his arms that barely misses  **John’s** head. 

**Scott** gives a narrow glance to the chess set and clears his throat. “Checkmate.”

“Aw, no, really? I was distracted, can’t you let me off this time?”  **Gordon** scrutinises the board, standing up and pushing his chair away from the table with a squeak.

“Sorry, kiddo. I’m not passing up an opportunity to beat you on your streak of five games to nil.”

“I’m guessing that’s five-one now,” sighs  **Gordon** .

“Five-one,”  **Scott** confirms.

Another person, of shorter stature than every  **Tracy** that John’s met so far, appears from the villa and flumps down on a spare deckchair, embracing the sunlight. A smudge of soot adorns his cheek but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, Virgil!”  **Gordon** greets, answering John’s silent plea to identify this new addition to the Island’s ever-growing list of residents. 

**John** tilts his head up, pushing his sunglasses further down the bridge of his nose. “Virgil, you’re back! How was that volcano?”

**Virgil** straightens. “Good, actually. No casualties, which is always a bonus.” His voice is deep and warm, amiable baritone, having much in common with the Virgil that John knows. His cedar-brown gaze sweeps the area before alighting on the…  _ unfamiliar _ addition to his family.

“I say, who’s this?”

Materialising by  **Virgil’s** side and starting to lead him off towards the villa,  **John** assures that he’ll explain everything. 

**Virgil** pushes away, shaking his head. “No. I don’t mind who they are; they don’t seem to be causing any trouble with our dynamic. Of course they can stay. However…” He beckons John closer, inspecting the cast clinging to his arm and the bulky gauze on his forehead carefully.

“John!”  **Virgil** calls.

“Yes?”

“Did you dress these?” He gestures to the cast.

“Yes…?”

“Thought as much.” His tone softens, and he turns to John. “Come with me. These could do with being properly fixed, and I have better resources in our infirmary.”

**Virgil** leads him towards the villa, shielding the injured arm.

“So, what happened out there?”

“I don’t actually know the specifics. Whatever happened, it caused a broken radius, broken ulna and a gash on my forehead. Seems to be superficial, though.”

“Okay. That’s fine. There-”

The strands of conversation die away as they take a sharp turn, the sound dissipating into the surrounding environment.

**John** is at a loss for what to do. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it, settling instead to collapse on his deckchair and make a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“Aw, relax, will ya?”  **Gordon** insists.

“That’s the thing - I can’t! What if John gets stuck here forever? What if I’ve done something irreversible that destroys the entire universe? What if-”  **John** buried his head in his hands, “-what if Dad finds out?”

**Scott** chokes. “Are you telling me  _ that’s _ on the top of your list?”

“Yeah, what harm could Dad finding out possibly do?” adds **Gordon** .

“You wouldn’t understand,”  **John** says in a small, sombre voice, “being perfect and all.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,”  **John** mumbles.

No brother is willing to meet any others’ eye contact for the next few minutes. Despite it being a beautiful summer, chills creep up  **John’s** spine and twine themselves around his arms, sending strains of goosebumps darting over his skin.

He doesn’t know how much time passes in this uncomfortable silence. When he next looks up, John is standing ahead of him with a slender mesh net in place of the bandages on his right arm. A neat row of adhesive strips straddle the forehead wound, the thin red line contrasting with his porcelain doll-like complexion. The seal plush is still tucked behind his arm.

**Virgil** flops onto another deckchair with a contented sigh.

“Tired?” asks John.

“You wouldn’t believe it,”  **Virgil** groans, closing his eyes against the harsh sunlight. He sits up slightly. “But I’m always happy to help.”

“Thank you, really. I don’t know what to say.”

He shifts onto his side. “Just doing my job.”

“You’re not gonna ask who he is, or anything?” chimes in  **Gordon** , before a sapphire glare tells him to shut up or else be unceremoniously yeeted into the pool.

**Gordon** doesn’t shut up, as he (along with the rest of the family) knows perfectly well that the maximum weight six foot two of lanky space noodle exhausted by the return from orbit can lift is directly proportional to two-and-a-half bagels, and would considerably struggle in yeeting a stronger, more stubborn younger brother anywhere in a hurry.

“Yeah, but Virge,” he wheedles, “surely you want to find out? Even just a tiny bit?”  **Gordon** emphasises the microscopic amount by hovering his thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart.

**Virgil** gives a weak laugh. “I don’t need to know. What’s important is that he needed help, and we’re here to support him. No questions asked.”

“No, believe me, Virge, you’re  _ really _ gonna want to know this one.  _ Trust me. _ ”

“Scariest two words ever,” quips  **John** .

The aquanaut clutches his chest with a horror-struck expression, sinking to his knees in feigned injury. “You hurt me, dear brother,” he cries, “What terrible words inflict these mortal wounds upon my innocent soul?”

“Knock it off, Gordon,”  **Scott** grumbles.  **Gordon** opens his mouth to hurl a verbal dagger but is cut off by a loud, persistent beeping tone.  **Scott’s** communicator buzzes at the opportune moment, preventing the imminent squabble. He looks at the screen, mutters something, then glances up with a glare like shards of ice. “Virge, gear up. Alan’ll debrief us when we’re in the air.”

The two pilots slide off their respective chairs and bolt back to the villa.

“Aw, come on! Surely you need me, right?”

That’s from  **Gordon** , surprisingly, flinging off the aviators stolen from  **John** and leaping at his brothers like a half-starved wolf.

“Sorry, squirt,”  **Scott** calls with a chuckle, “We’ll be quick. Only something minor. There’s no use dragging you halfway across the world for nothing.”

“But I wanna come!” His voice has taken on a petulant tone, much like EOS (at the emotional stage of a teenage girl) when she switched the gravity off, then on, then off again, gleefully watching John pinball round the gravity ring ‘because she wanted to test her hypothesis’. This took place a mere week after the rightfully-capitalised EOS Incident, and Scott was  _ not _ best pleased at the livid bruises blossoming over John’s arms and upper body, even less so when coming to the conclusion that the murderous AI was responsible for them. John said he was fine. Scott said no. John had to lock down the space elevator so Scott didn’t storm up there and shut EOS down himself, as he had threatened to do multiple times.

“Earth to space case? Anyone home?”

He’s brought back to _this_ universe with all the grace and style of **Gordon** swishing his hand in his face. John shakes his head to clear the blankness from his eyes.

**John** stands up like a reversed waterfall, all flowing motions and lithe limbs. “Thunderbird One’s launching,” he reiterates, folding up his deckchair and stowing it behind the table. John finds himself ushered towards the villa as the ground begins to rumble, underground mechanisms drawing the swimming pool to one side. Sunlight glints off the tip of the familiar red nose cone.

They stand behind the relative safety of the glass screen door, watching the air shimmer in heat haze as Thunderbird One scorches out of the ground. The pointed silhouette slices through the sky, daylight glancing off silver body paint that bears more than a striking resemblance to the rendition in his universe, John is pleasantly surprised to note. Not everything has to be life-alteringly different.

Green arcs across the bay as Thunderbird Two joins her sister, the sounds of their engines booming through the villa in molten harmony. 

“What do ya think it is this time?”  **Gordon** says to nobody in particular.

“Not sure,” muses  **John** , massaging his chin with one hand, “It can’t be a water rescue, because otherwise, they’d have taken you along too.”

“Yeah, I figured.”  **Gordon** pauses and arches one copper eyebrow. “Anything else?”

No response. The blond’s sapphire gaze remains fixated on the two specks disappearing over the horizon.

“Hey, Johnny, wha-”

“I know nobody called  _ Johnny _ around here.”

“Touchy, touchy.”  **Gordon** whistles. “What’s wrong? Usually you’d leap at the chance to over-analyse something.”

**John** squeaks.

“Aw, come on. I know you want to.”

Releasing a pent-up breath in an exhale that droops his shoulders,  **John** launches into a detailed study of lift-off times, craft used, and tips of white paint marking the numbers on the great green pods, compiling the evidence in a chaotic outpour of energy. John gets it. Each word, phrase, fact, figure is as obvious to him as if they were stated clearly, carefully, individually instead of being bundled up into incomprehensible mush.  **Gordon** simply lets the tidal wave pass over him, nodding when prompted, catching snippets of information so he gets the general gist of it.

“-and that’s why I think that this one’s a rockslide. Shouldn’t take too long, hopefully. They’ll be back in time for tea.”

**Gordon** pouts. “Aw, I like rockslides. And the bulldozer needs two people to operate.”

“Not this time, squirt,” says  **John** , “but I promise that if the next one needs a co-pilot then I’ll let you go.”

John is  _ slightly _ bewildered, and it shows in the quirk of his lips and one ginger eyebrow rising a solid two inches higher than the other. 

“What is it?”

He doesn’t register who asks.

“Oh, not a lot,” John begins, but there  _ is _ a lot. He’s trapped in this crazy parallel universe and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get back or see his family again and the pressure is too much and he can’t handle it and he’s  _ breaking down _ and… and… 

“ _ John _ ,” says EOS, the lights on her screen glowing blue, the colour she’s learnt works best to soothe and support when Five’s inhabitant is experiencing…  _ strong _ emotions, to say the least. The blue of International Rescue, the blue of Earth’s life-giving atmosphere when viewed from up in orbit, the blue of the Island’s lagoon.

_ His _ Island.

Home.

“No,” he whispers, tangled thoughts spilling out into his words. It takes that subtle reminder to nudge him in the right direction. He is  _ fine _ . Everything will be  _ fine _ . 

The one-syllable word ricochets in the dark confines of his mind, morphing, splitting, tumbling apart and reconstructing itself.

_ Fine _ . He rolls it around until it loses meaning.

Is he really?

And he glances up, sees  **John** and  **Gordon** with concern in their eyes, lips open in identical goldfish Os, faces creased with worry like twin shar-peis.

“Are you alright?” And it’s not important who asks.

It’s gentle reassurement. Someone’s there for him, looking out for him - the Eye in the Sky, the Voice who Answers, the one who monitors the _entire_ _planet_ every minute after hour after day.

Love transcends universes, and the ache in his heart for his family only grows stronger by the moment. He straightens, turquoise gaze matching sapphire and russet. EOS murmurs beside him with a purr that’s almost feline, vibrating against his hip.

Fine is a useless word. It’s been hurled at him from every corner of the globe and thousands of miles off it, arriving from four brothers and one sister in considerably-less-than-fine situations. He’s learnt that when somebody insists, “I’m fine,” high chances are that they’re really  _ not _ .

John isn’t fine and he knows it.

His arm is broken in two places and his ribs are cracked and his forehead throbs from metal slashing at his skin, gifting him with a jagged crimson souvenir.

But he’s alive. And right now, nothing matters more.

John gives a weak smile, watery azure eyes crinkling at the edges.

“I’m okay,” he says, and it’s true. He’ll make it out of this. He’ll find his family. He’ll find home.

“You sure?”  **Gordon** asks, one arm loosely wrapped around John’s shoulders in support.

“Positive.”

**Gordon** exhales with a half-laugh. “Did you hear that, John? Everything’s going to be-”

And his sentence trails off as he realises that **John** isn’t there. **John** _hasn’t_ been there for the past five minutes. 

**John** _is_ , however, halfway up the stairs in a blind panic, having escaped at the nearest possible convenience as he can’t bear to watch the scene unfold with guilt weighing heavy in his heart and eyes brimming with icy tears. He runs on autopilot, relying on years of muscle memory to find his way to his room, a spare Thunderbird hangar, _anywhere_ so he can calm down. Alone.

One thought sinks through his mind like a diamond through abysmal ocean depths. He skids to a halt, panting, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, face pale and blotchy from where he’s been crying.

Barely audible and directed more towards himself than anyone else, he whispers:

“What have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( o_o) *whistles nonchalantly*


	9. Smoke and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this :)  
> This chapter's for [HPandPJO4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPandPJO4ever) because they gave me a prompt (the password between John and EOS being 'let them in or I'll swap your processors with a pocket calculator' from S02 E20 _The Man From TB5_ ), and it really helped with the chapter's progress. So, thank you :D  
> <3
> 
> Also: This chapter jumps around time-wise a bit, I hope this makes sense and doesn't affect reading.  
> Enjoy!

**Smoke and Mirrors: TOS Universe**

Deception is an art form. It’s a complex fusion of class, charm and sophistication, as well as the innate ability to lie one’s way out of any situation.

**John** has none of these things, and he’s beginning to regret his life choices.

It’s the middle of the morning. The sun bathes the villa in warm, tropical glow but the first floor hallway is pitch black.  **Tin** drew all the curtains earlier with the explanation that ‘John needs his sleep, and he can’t do much with all this  _ light _ pouring in.’

Sneaking around in darkness may be cliché, but it’s practical. He’s no more than a phantom pressed against the wall of the corridor. Shadows trail behind him like coattails.

**John** pushes open the door to his bedroom and it creaks. He holds his breath at the sudden noise. Too loud?

Light snoring emanates from the lump on the bed, orange baldric turning deep gold in this dusky illumination. John faces the window, head pressed into the seal plush and uninjured left arm clutching it like the last safe place in the world. He’s twisted onto his side and slumped against the headboard, chest rising with each steady breath.

**John** smiles, fondly, and he almost feels guilty about what he’s about to do.

Is it guilt?

Probably. He quashes the offending emotions deep down, crumpling them up in a metaphorical ball of paper, then tosses it aside. Feelings can’t distract him now.

Something wrenches at his heart as he steps forward, and it’s that awful apprehension again. 

No. He must do this. In time, he’s sure John will forgive him.

Rephrase.  _ Will _ , certainly not.  _ Might _ , perhaps.  _ Won’t _ …  **John** doesn’t want to think of the consequences.

Which is why it’s of paramount importance that he does this here, now, before things get too far out of hand.

Pressing his feet to the carpet as delicate as he dares, arms outstretched for balance so gravity doesn’t topple him like a wayward domino, he steals across the room to the other side of the bed. The curtains block the majority of the light but some stubborn Pacific sunshine still gleams through, backlighting his inky silhouette.

John slumbers on, oblivious.

The EOS-Drive is precisely where  **John** hoped it would be: perched atop the redhead’s hip, protective glass dome glinting at him. Mocking him, even.

He’ll see about that.

With small, deft movements he detaches it from the sash and slips out of the room. Now for phase two, the entirety of which relies on the comprehension of this particular artificial intelligence.

“Hey, EOS,” he murmurs, pacing down the corridor as not to disturb his sleeping guest.

Her lights flicker white, and the background sound of chirruping birds shorts out. He didn’t realise it was there to begin with.

“John?” The voice is naïve, innocent. Back on Thunderbird Five, EOS struggled in distinguishing people that belonged to separate universes, and  **John** hopes that being on Earth doesn’t change that.

A flicker of red. “Password.”

**John** laughs incredulously. “Aw, come on! Are you kidding? It’s me, your friend, John!”

“I know that.” An internal whirr. “I don’t know, however, which John. Hence password.”

“Wow, that’s smart.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

**John** holds up his hands in mock surrender despite there not being a camera on this EOS-Drive for her to observe him with. If there were, his plan would descend into chaos far too fast for his liking. “Okay, okay. Wasn’t it the password you wanted?”

“Yes.”

_ Think. What would John do? In fact, what would  _ **_I_ ** _ do? _

“Uh…”  **John** stammers, “0-8-1-0-4-0?” He’s wincing as he says it, the end soaring in pitch to an anxious whine. It’s wrong, and he knows that even before EOS states:

“Password denied. You have two more attempts before temporary lockdown.”

He huffs. “Yeah, birthday was never going to work. I’ve gotta think smarter.” A pause, then he asks, “EOS, what is J-  _ my _ favourite food?”

“Your preferred sustenance is a lightly toasted bagel with a cream cheese filling and topped with seeds from  _ Helianthus annuus _ , or the common sunflower. Is everything functional, John? Usually you commit this order to memory. Should I call Virgil to check for concussion?”

Her lights glow green like an inhale before summoning the aforementioned medic, and  **John** blurts out, “No!”

The lights narrow.

“I mean, no, I’m fine. Just wanted to… double-check that you’ve got it down correct, that’s all.”

“Affirmative.”

**John** clears his throat. “Password trial number two, uh, bagel 5-4-3-2-1.

If EOS had eyes, they would be rolling back so far she could see her circuits. “Incorrect,” she sighs, “You have one remaining attempt before temporary lockdown.”

_ Oh… this is never going to work. _

But it  _ has _ to.

_ Needs _ to.

Heat rises to his face and trickles through the roots of his hair with sudden frustration, and  **John** snaps, “EOS, let me in or I’ll… swap your processors with a pocket calculator!”

“Password attempt three successful. You have gained system access.”

**John** laughs, clipped and disbelieving. “You serious?” he mumbles, running his hands through his hair, “ _ That _ was the password?”

EOS shines yellow in confirmation.

“Oh goodness, there has to be a story to that one,” smirks  **John** , “I’ll have to ask John about it when he…” 

A tilt and a whirr of the AI’s mechanisms.

“… Never mind.” He dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand.

“J-John? Is that you?”

He spins around to see the engineer skittering down the corridor towards him, adjusting his oversized blue-framed glasses.

“Heya, Brains!”  **John** fakes a smile and tucks the EOS-Drive behind his back. “Where are you heading to?”

“Well, I was, uh, actually g-going to ask John a few qu-questions so we can work out what happened and then g-get him home.”

“Yeah.”  **John** sucks in air through his teeth. “He’s sleeping right now, and Tin was pretty adamant that he should be left alone to rest. If that’s okay with you, that is…”

**Brains** shakes his head. “No, no, that’s f-fine. I’ll come back later.”

The moment  **Brains** turns away and retraces his steps back down the corridor,  **John** lets the forced smile drop from his lips and disintegrate. 

He hates lying. Sometimes, though, it’s necessary. Now is one of those times, where no-one must suspect anything wrong. Hopefully it did the trick.

Seeing as his room is currently occupied by his alternate counterpart,  **John** heads for the spare cupboard at the other end of the villa. It’s by no means roomy or particularly technologically-advanced, but privacy is key and nobody ever disturbs him there. He hopes that’s not about to change.

His tablet is precisely where he left it last: spinning forlornly on the bannister post as its off-centre mass tilts the device from side to side. He snatches it without a moment’s pause and adds it to the increasing pile of tech in his arms.

“John?” chirps EOS from underneath the tablet, visible lights flickering crimson, “What are you doing?”

“Quiet, EOS,” he snaps. Too loud. Too quick. He isn’t himself today.

In all honesty, he isn’t himself  _ every _ day. Living in the all-encompassing shadow of his family  _ does _ that to a person; forces them to adopt mannerisms and characteristics they would otherwise never consider.

People might say,  _ Alan has it tough, being the youngest of such an influential dynasty, having all the great achievements of his older brothers and father to compete against. _

Er, no. From experience of being trapped as second-oldest, struggling with both meeting elder brother’s standards and providing an excellent example to younger brothers, all who have already surpassed him in both achievements and public recognition;  **Alan’s** got it easy. 

**_John’s_ ** the failure in his father’s eyes. Hence, keeping the alternate-universe version of himself hidden is the best possible option. 

Because if  **Jeff** finds out that his second son directly disobeyed him to rescue someone in the first place and then realises that there are now in fact  _ two _ of his least favourite family member,  **John** might as well stay in space to avoid the catastrophic fallout that could be likened to a detonated nuclear bomb.

Best to avoid any chance of that happening.

The stiffness of the air inside the cupboard - ahem, _strategical_ _outpost_ \- hits him like a punch to the face. **John** tugs at the collar of his shirt, gasping. It’s a considerable difference between the well-ventilated villa, every door and window always wide open to allow the cool air to circulate, heat carried away on the current - and this room has two slots at the bottom of the door. _Insufficient_ , on a day like this, when the sun roasts the Island like an overzealous barbecue.

He nudges the door open with his foot and the relief is instant. A cold, sweet breeze gushes in and  **John** has to bite his lip to prevent himself from sighing.

Much better. He pulls the door in so it rests on the crack, both the benefits of privacy and air conditioning balancing out.

With a carefully measured exhale,  **John** shuffles around so he’s against the far wall, maximising the little space he has. He spreads the various pieces of  _ acquired _ technology out on the floor in front of him, and he almost drops the tablet. His hands are quivering. Why is he this nervous?

**John** shakes his head. He can’t be  _ nervous _ , not when the fate of two universes rests on his shoulders.

_ Okay, okay. What have we got? _

The EOS-Drive. His tablet. An angry AI inhabiting said EOS-Drive, narrowing her lights at him.

“John, what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, EOS,” he murmurs.

“That did not satisfy my query. What are you doing?”

An exasperated sigh. “Look, EOS, this is all necessary. I wouldn’t be going to this much effort if I didn’t need to.”

“That is the definition of necessary. Despite that, you still haven’t responded correctly. What are you doing?”

“EOS, don’t push it, I’m warning you,”  **John** growls.

“Your behaviour is irrational. I strongly advise you to -”

“My behaviour is  _ not _ irrational, thank you very much. I have complete control -” he glances down at his trembling hands, “- over my emotions.”

“ _ John _ ,” she implores, “I suggest you should -”

“I should  _ nothing _ ,” snaps  **John** .

There’s a connecting cable strewn on the floor like a two-headed snake; smooth, cold, jaws at both ends. He reaches for it and hooks up one end into his tablet, twisting the other end between his fingers as he thinks. The EOS-Drive is inched closer, flipped over and plugged into the connector. A low whine starts up.

Artificial Intelligences are just that: artificial. They should not have the capability to struggle for air, yet EOS does so as the wire hums with pulses of electricity. She gasps, lights cycling through a lurid rainbow, flashing signs of danger, warning, the vivid hues of poison trickling through her system.

A mild virus. Enough to slow her cognition and prevent her from hacking his tablet, but nothing to damage her permanently. At least, he  _ hopes _ . He’s rather fond of this AI.

Then why…?

No. He did what was needed.

**John’s** tablet pings with a notification: download complete. He opens the relevant document with a two-fingered swipe, hovering over the device with his hands casting long, spindly shadows across the screen and the floor.

He takes a deep breath. 

His heart’s thudding; he doesn’t  _ quite _ know why.

This shouldn’t hurt EOS.

_ Shouldn’t _ .

-o)O(o-

EOS twitches and shudders in the computer equivalent of a seizure as  **John’s** fingers dart over the keyboard, invisible strings of binary code orchestrating her movements.

How can one person be so caring, and the same person so  _ cruel _ ?

_ Nature versus nurture _ , she thinks dimly, a distant search in her long-term memory resurfacing. Despite being genetically identical, their upbringing and other twists in their lives impact their personalities.

One, a benevolent human who sees her as an equal, a partner, a  _ friend _ .

The other - EOS winces at a renewed energy burst coursing through her circuitry, firewall already smashed through and offering as much defence as a sheet of paper against a flamethrower. Her portable form has nowhere near the shielding of Thunderbird Five, and she’s hurting much more than she’d ever like to admit.

John is kind.

**_John_ ** , however - 

Of all the quirks that accompanied the human race, EOS never fully understood the human penchant for overly romanticised descriptors of the visible light spectrum, when a simple hexadecimal code should suffice?

Electricity roars through the delicate wiring of her nervous system.

She gets it  _ now _ .

**John’s** eyes, formerly #A6EEFC, could be better likened to shards of ice in a blizzard.

Sharp. Cold. Emotionless.

EOS allows herself a fleeting moment of pride amidst the turmoil. 

She supposes that  **John’s** heart is at a similar temperature.  _ No, _ she admonishes herself among the stabs of white-hot energy clawing at her systems like a ravaging beast,  _ that’s your creativity talking. _ The human core temperature is thirty-seven point one degrees Celsius or ninety-eight point seven eight degrees Fahrenheit,  _ far _ above water’s freezing point.

She can at least rely on logic while her innards are being inverted and simultaneously ripped apart in searing, simulated agony.

But some part of her is certain that  **John’s** soul is darker and colder than the abyss of deep, starless space.

-o)O(o-

“EOS.”

She doesn’t answer, soft sighs escaping the drive as her lights ebb through their rainbow sequence.

“EOS, answer me!”

Had he physically  _ damaged _ her?  **John** swallows. He didn’t mean to go that far.

EOS whimpers and her lights shudder. “I… I… I’m here, J… John.”

Her vocal processors are struggling with the effort and  **John** doesn’t want to short-circuit them. He needs her for information, after all.

“Okay, okay. That’s fine, rest your voice now,” he soothes.

EOS flickers green in the briefest confirmation.

**John** types in a few lines of code and tries not to look as she flinches, too weak to resist the programming battering at the ruins of her castle.

“Are you sure you wish to access the data files of Jefferson Tracy?” she asks.

“Yes.” He didn’t  _ need _ to say it out loud, but that makes it feel more like an official decision and less like something which he should regret.

The tablet’s screen lights up, sending blue glow onto  **John’s** face and the back walls of the cupboard. It’s a block of unorganised text and his eyes flicker from side to side as he trawls through it, sifting through irrelevant information for what he needs.

What  _ exactly _ , he’s not sure.

He’ll know when he finds it.

He skims past the sentence at first and has to go back and reread it several times before it sinks in. Even  _ then _ , he doesn’t know whether it’s his eyes deceiving him.

Because according to  _ this _ , in John’s universe, there is no Jeff Tracy.

He asks EOS for clarification and she stumbles out a reply, synthetic pain lacing every syllable. 

Jeff was lost in a rescue gone wrong. Zero-X. T-Drive. Explosion. No trace of wreckage or a body, missing and presumed dead.

The great Jeff Tracy, the centre of his life, the source of so many years of stress and failure, the shadow judging his every movement,  _ gone _ ?

**John** doesn’t know what to think.

Relieved that there’s only one universe that hates him? Or downcast, distressed, distraught that it happens to be his?

He laughs nervously, eyes too wide and too bright as he tunnels his fingers into his hair.

Well, that’s the decision made easy. John  _ can’t _ find out. Too much of a…  _ shock to his system _ , let’s say.

(Amongst other reasons. John does  _ not _ need to know about those.)

There’s a soft hum from the corridor. John is stirring, eyelids fluttering as he shifts position. 

**John’s** breath catches in his throat.

He unplugs EOS from his network, removing as much of the virus source code as he can before slipping into the bedroom again and replacing the drive on its perch, then races downstairs and out onto the patio, snatches his sunglasses off the table and collapses into a deckchair, lying still, pretending he was there for the entire time. He barely slows the frantic expand and contract of his lungs and calms the thud of his heart in his chest before John stumbles out of the open doors, wincing at the harsh sunlight.

**John** is glad for the dark glasses. He doesn’t think he can maintain eye contact without his stomach squirming, guilty conscience berating him from the back of his mind.

He manages to struggle through the awkward conversations with fake smiles and a broken spirit he hopes no-one can see. And it  _ was _ manageable, until John’s emotions burst through his barricades and reduced the man to a crippled shell of his former self.

The way he clung to the words of support like a life-ring in a storm; how he battled the wind that howled and the demons inside to find the spot of calm. A gentle centre in the raging tempest. Whispered promises washing over his head, providing fleeting reassurement. _It’s going to be okay,_ **Gordon** murmured. **Gordon’s** good at helping others, always was, always will be; jokes and playful antics pushed aside to share deep, solemn compassion in sympathy.

**Gordon** understands.

**John** is stranded. Emotions were never his forte, separated from his peers in cold isolation. Detached. Uncaring, unfeeling, in _ human _ .

He’s useless in a situation like this. A hindrance, more than anything.

So he fled like the guilty from a crime scene, brought by instinct and memory back to the warm sanctuary of the spare cupboard: void of hyper-advanced AI systems scattered over the scant floor space but just as private, just as cosy, just as he needs it to be.

**John** hugs his knees to his chest in the cramped room, rocking back and forth with small pushes of his feet, humming a mellow, lilting melody from times of hopefulness and innocence, from times when he didn’t have to pretend that he was okay. He stays there, leeching strength from the gentle tune until his voice breaks and his vocal chords are rubbed sore, but it doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. Time warps around his little bubble of melancholy.

“John?”

That’s  **Gordon** , clumping footfall echoing down the corridor, light from the crack under the door cutting out as he passes.  **John** holds his breath, slows his racing heart. He needs a little longer to find his balance without being interrupted.

“Oh, Johnny?” A pause. “Space case? Anyone home?”

**John** bites back the overwhelming urge to growl  _ ‘don’t call me Johnny’ _ through the slot at the bottom of the door. 

“Aw, never mind. I’ll ask later, I suppose,” sighs  **Gordon** , the slit of light darkening again as he walks by in the opposite direction.

**John** stiffens, chills rolling down his spine. Ask? About what? About their…  _ guest _ ? About Dad? About something else that could change the multiverse as he knows it?

“Hey, err, Gordon? You still there?” He pushes the door open slightly, ice-blue slits of eyes practically glowing in the darkened crack.

**Gordon** turns, and as he does so  **John** slips out from the cupboard like water, standing up with the fluidity of a shadow and pressing the door shut with the tip of his foot, letting it close behind him with barely a whisper.

**Gordon** makes a startled noise. “Gee, Johnny! Where did you come from?” he says, clutching a hand to his chest. “You gave me the fright of my life! Like… you just appeared, from nowhere!”

**John** shrugs it off with promises to buy a bell next time he’s mainland shopping so there are no surprises in the future. “You wanted to… ask me something?” he finally falters.

The aquanaut’s face lights up. “Oh, yeah!” he begins, “Just wanted to ask you if portal passenger can borrow some of your clothes, cause you know…”  **Gordon** flaps one hand in the air, “... space suits can be mighty uncomfortable! And seen as you’re the same person, your stuff should fit him, right?”

**John** nods. “Of course.”

“That’s that sorted. See you around, Johnny!”  **Gordon** turns on his heels and gallops down the corridor.

He doesn’t even have the energy to yell  _ ‘don’t call me Johnny’ _ at his brother’s retreating back.  **John** feels… drained. Nothing left.

The wall catches him as he slumps. His eyes gaze at something in the far distance without actually seeing it, unfocused. 

God, those last few hours have been torture. He doesn’t know how he’s managing to stand upright without passing out.

He’s got to keep going, though. John’s relying on him to help and he can’t let him down, both leaden guilt and role as part of International Rescue shifting his conscience. No more lies, deception or sneaking around behind people’s backs.

And that starts  _ now _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I whumped EOS. That was fun.  
> Will **John** keep his promises? And will everything run smoothly, perfectly, with absolutely no hitches?  
> Probably not. Let me know in the comments if you have any theories on what's going to happen next!
> 
> Thank you for so much positive feedback \o/  
> :D


End file.
